Serena Ryder – Stompa

Exactly What It Says On The Tin or False Advertising Suit Waiting To Happen?

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[4.71]Alfred Soto: With a slogan sung loud enough to wake the neighbors in Winnipeg, this Adele-icate stomper at first sounds like it’s going places beyond a bunch of late 2000’s post-soul signifiers lined up along the side of the road saying hi.
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Katherine St Asaph: Ryder’s voice is too leaden for this; she intones like Adele on melatonin, talking up a a shrug about clapping hands (which she’s not) and stomping feet (nor that), then plodding a bit with the band before drifting off into boredom.
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Anthony Easton: That chugging little intro riff does an efficient bit of business, and the introduction about calming down and listening to something so relentless has some interesting tension. I also love her voice, and she pushes it past where it has gone previously. The chorus’s onomatopoeia is also fantastic. Could use some actual hand-claps and foot stomps. Extra point for the piano coda.
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Brad Shoup: “Stompa” is a stomper about stomping, and not a stomper about Stompa as I had hoped. The focus now becomes the overwhelming bubblegum vibes emanating from this tune. First, there’s the whole ruthlessly efficient pop-soul, with its wordless rejoinders that recall Adele and Jack White simultaneously. Then there’s the Hammond organ sound, which links us to the classic Buddah/White Whale definition of bubblegum. Then there’s the instructional/descriptive nature of the text; I might as well be listening to Ohio Express. And, finally, she sounds great on the middle eight — good, sure, but studio hired-gun good. Just like all those fucking Archies. Had Ryder found a way to sing about Stompa, or even — dare I dream? — issue this single under the moniker Stompa as part of a poorly-executed supervillain cartoon-and-notebook business venture, I would have awarded this seven thousand points and fallen dead from a stroke. But for faithfulness to letter and spirit, I award this song:
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Jer Fairall: See, you can tell this one is authentic ’cause she can play the geetar, gets that we all got bills to pay, and clearly knows her Adele and Jack White.
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Daniel Montesinos-Donaghy: An aw-shucks attempt at “inviting” that comes off as “Sunday school claparound” at best, “narcoleptic” at worst.
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Patrick St. Michel: An extra syllable isn’t enough to make this more than a really tedious stab at artsy jock jam.
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