Store Credit by Finderella

"Store Credit" isn't just a collection of songs; it’s the sound of hinges turning on a heavy door, the echo of what we carry and what we finally set down. We took these scattered bits—a receipt, a tarnished ring, the quiet hum of a congregation—and made a map out of them, tracing a journey from holding tight to finally letting go. You’ll hear it in the careful snap of a finger, marking time against a contact-miked ring that started as just another rummage-sale find and became a metronome for reckoning. This isn't just music; it's a thrift-myth cycle, a series of modern parables where every returned object unlocks a story. We’re talking about more than notes and beats; we’re chasing the deep pulse of restitution becoming a groove, of repair turning into a kind of rhythm you can’t help but lean into.

The whole thing started, really, with a bit of shame and a lot of questions about what we claim as ours. From hesitant confessions whispered over dust-sweet Rhodes and a bass clarinet exhaling like a tired radiator, to street-corner parables scored by organ warmth and the subtle tape wow of a thrifted karaoke box, this record moves. You follow Finderella as she wrestles with these pocket-sized gods of yard sales and pawn-shop saints, each step pulling closer to a sunrise benediction. It’s an intimate sound, engineered on 4-track cassette, rich with live-band heft and those sticky-sweet choir swells that tighten throats. You might feel the chest pressure rise, palms tingle, like a pawned ring just warmed your skin.

What we aimed for was something that could sit alongside the greats—a neo-soul rap and gospel statement that finds the sacred in the street-level exchange. Those hooks, they land like quiet truths: "I give back what tried to own me," and "Receipt in the liner, blessing in the pocket." You'll hear the friction, the grace, in a playful showdown with a trickster cashier, where register beeps become prophecy and a lap-steel sighs under the organ until laughter-through-tears seals a promise. There’s depth here, a theology woven into the drum patterns, a critique of the thrift-economy hummed behind hush-precise verses. But the body gets it first, that undeniable pull that makes you want to hum along, to join the call-and-response. This isn't about hype; it's about building a shared ritual of care, a sound that you can identify in seconds, sticky as a chorus you hum with dry lips, a shiver rolling down your back. It’s a classic-aiming record, poised for long-life playlists and community chorus, because some stories, some truths, just need to be passed hand to hand.

Finderella: Old hymns and new rhymes. Finding lost things, giving back, and singing the heavy truths found inside.