Marcel Winatschek

Verde

I caught up with Marsimoto about Verde, his fifth album coming April 27. First thing clear: pressure wasn’t his thing. He’d been doing this on his own terms from the beginning—smoke when he wants, travel when he wants, make whatever sounds right. German music is shit and it pisses him off, so he makes albums to fix it. Verde was next. He’d already won before we even started talking.

The title was pure Marsimoto geometry. Verde—green in Spanish. V as the Roman numeral five. Earth, where he exists as an alien. Verde. The rest of German music was finished while he was still explaining the wordplay.

He wouldn’t shut up about Paul Ripke. That was the real story. Without Ripke, there’s just a dude with a microphone. Ripke showed up early, brought his magic, his skill, his success, and suddenly something real could exist. They needed each other, apparently. Ripke spent a couple months adding his eye to the songs and then Verde was done. That’s where the actual art happened—not Marsimoto alone but Marsimoto plus Ripke’s obsessive attention to everything.

The music itself came fast. December to January, done. The visuals took longer and mattered more. Beats were basically irrelevant, he said. The writing was what made him him. If he was in that state—mostly indica, some sativa—and a beat kicked him hard enough, he’d grab it. Then the song would materialize fully formed, like it had always been waiting for him to find it.

GoPro was about cameras, and he took time to explain that Paul Ripke invented the GoPro because he couldn’t be everywhere at once, even though Ripke was rich and beautiful and apparently capable of absolutely everything. They didn’t get paid, but he’d accept a donation since GoPro was basically dead. Nobody needed a GoPro anymore. He was just being honest.

Chicken Terror gave voice to chickens. They can’t speak for themselves, so Marsimoto translated what was happening in their heads. He speaks chicken, apparently. The song would explain the rest.

He had a weed system. Kush di Hush di Vul for Indica, Brown To The Raun for Sativa, but mostly Rumms—his brand. Rumms and you’re just Rumms! Good hybrid.

He’d bought a house in Newport Beach and become a hipster because he wanted to and could afford it. Supreme gloves, Yeezys, the kind of taste most people couldn’t pull off. In ten years everyone would want to live there, but they’d be too late. He was already gone.

He surfed with Paul Ripke, who was apparently the best surfer in the world, even though most people thought he was soft. Turned out Ripke had a makeup artist make him look heavy to avoid the pure hatred that came from being universally talented and also actually ripped. When Ripke went surfing for real, he was unstoppable. Kelly Slater said so. That was the Ripke thing—so good at everything that he didn’t need to advertise it.

The internet had decided Marsimoto was actually Paul Ripke. He shut that down. Look at him, he said. They were all Marsimoto. The internet thinks 9/11 didn’t happen. The internet thinks a lot of stupid shit. He knows what Ripke can do—it’s beyond human. He’d named seven kids Paul Ripke, just using it as the first name. That was the least he could do. Internet trolls could fuck off.