Sam Snitchy

Long before he ever set foot in a studio, Sam Snitchy was out on the streets, screaming poems under the name Maniporno — raw, fearless, and wired to the chaos around him. Then he started turning that noise into records — first as Melker, later as Sam Snitchy. In March 2026 comes the third Snitchy album (Voodoo Rhythm Records), another step further down the road, deeper into the noise, the pulse, the confusion that started it all.

The new record is a sonic exorcism, recorded with Marco Fuorigioco twisting bass, synths and guitars and tearing the tape apart, Philipp Schlotter flooding the room with haunted synth hallucinations, and Domi Chansorn hammering drums like collapsing towers. Together they drag you through psychedelic punk fury bleeding into dark wave shadows, mutating into industrial noise and dub haze, morphing into a twisted techno pulse until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins — everything feeding the fire.

And over this storm, Sam Snitchy spits his words like broken mirrors — twisted and self-reflecting stories about humans lost in their own contradictions, about empty routines and meaningless lifestyles dressed up as success, about the absurd dance between ecstasy and despair. The lyrics don’t explain — they disturb. They hold up a cracked glass and force you to look at yourself until you don’t know whether to laugh or scream. ​