Superpitcher

 

Superpitcher grew up in the south of Germany, alone and lonely. He started to collect music at sixteen, seduced by the soft sounds of Prefab Sprout, Scritti Politti, and Roxy Music. Despite never having his interest encouraged, he learned to play both piano and guitar, and vowed to make tracks as soon as he could. He began to daydream. Pop would be his escape. Here was a parallel universe of sweet release, where being awkward and curious was rewarded and cherished. In his mind, he’d fallen to earth, without personal past or communal history. His arteries ran from his heart to the stars.

A decade later he moved to Cologne. He got a job working in the distribution department of a record label, Kompakt, and found new heroes, men that linked his sonic youth and adult aspirations. Wolfgang Voigt, Chain Reaction, Jorg Burger, and Air Liquide can each find their seed in the Superpitcher sound. In 2002, he decided to give up work, and forge a new nocturnal lifestyle. He increased his DJing, steadied his socialising, and perfected his producing. In his own words, ‘everything fit together, and clicked into place’.

The Kompakt audience met Superpitcher on two superlative EPs. ‘Heroin’ contains freaky bleeps and frantic basslines, expansive electro vistas, heavenly acoustics, and sugar-sweet vocals. ‘Yesterday’ followed with waves of engulfing electronics, surging strings, and shimmering, glimmering techno. He continued to contort other people’s work into his own shapes – memorably drenching Carsten Jost’s ‘You Don’t Need a Weatherman’ in sweet birdsong – contributed tougher tracks to Kompakt’s ‘Speicher’ series, and adorned the Kompakt Extra imprint with six minutes of genre-defining brilliance: the glam-rocking, shaffel remix of Quarks’ ‘I Walk’.

‘Pitcher is a poster boy, an artist whose natural habitat is looking out at us from glossy pages. Dressed to kill but built to care, he is fearless and fragile, strong and shy, both confident and coy. His music is emotive; like setting your diary to a tender, melodic, and driving soundtrack. It has peaks and troughs, ups and downs, highs and lows. It equally evokes the feelings of surfing on endorphins, of never being more content, and crying alone on a bedroom floor, as low as you’ve ever been in your life. In a nightclub it sounds torrid and passionate, a mainline injection of soul and sex; the perfect backdrop to meeting a stranger, or devouring your lover.

In 2004, Superpitcher released his debut album. It begins with a haunting three-note chime, and ends in a yearning, angelic vocal. In between, it speaks of sadness, longing, craving, and infatuation: lazy, luststruck afternoons; rainy, unrequited nights; tragic vulnerability; and sickness-inducing desire. An aural spectrum of the deepest emotion. In tone, terms, and texture, it captures the sharpest edges of existence: feeling hopeless, helpless, and hapless; or excited, ecstatic, incited. It’s the stuff of dreams and nightmares, hopes and fears, symphonies and cacophonies. It’s about being human, needing someone, seeking completion. It’s called ‘Here Comes Love’.

 
 
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