I think that I have a heightened sense of awareness now. I understand how I am perceived by supposed close friends and family. I am—and always have been—different. I began writing short stories and poems at the age of three or four. Always performing, always putting on shows on my mother’s front porch. I won’t say what songs I did—I’m laughing now and a little embarrassed because I remember it so clearly. I can hear someone say, “That little boy is sassy.” I chuckle and smile in remembrance of me.
I’ve tapped into a lot of pain recently. Just when I started to heal, it seemed like one thing after another began hitting me, affecting every area of my life. But I’m not a quitter. I’ve never been. I’ve learned to let go of people, places, and things that no longer serve me—relationships that drained me emotionally and physically, friendships where I was the one putting in all the effort, and even certain family members.
I realized recently that I’ve always been an advocate for others. But when I faced tough situations, I looked around and no one was there for me the way I had been for them. That’s when I knew I had to start speaking up for myself and stop letting life just happen to me. I stopped centering myself as a victim and started calling things out for what they were.
Respectability politics don’t suit me. It’s 2025, yet some people are walking around like it’s still 1965. The racism, the homophobia—it’s suffocating. We don’t have to look far to see what’s happening in our own country. I applaud Bruce Springsteen for calling out this fascist administration. He’s not wrong, and the people supporting this catastrophe bear responsibility too. I won’t get too deep into that here—I’ve got a book coming out later this summer that dives into all of it.
I had always done things to help others—to get their names out there, to spotlight their voices. I’ve always loved interviews, conversations, lifting others up. That people-pleasing nature, the urge to help people along in their careers—that started when I was just 14. I invited people along for the ride when I created things, because they seemed interested. But because it wasn’t their baby, they weren’t as dedicated as I was.
During the pandemic, I restarted IRMIX Radio. We were all stuck at home, and I needed to create. I’ve always been that way. I was podcasting before it became trendy. I reached out to friends, to family. Everyone seemed excited. It was a chance to earn real income without much heavy lifting—well, not for them. For me, it was always work. I expected them to work as hard as I did. But some didn’t follow through. Some were even working side deals that compromised their responsibilities to the station.
That was a turning point. Here I was, pouring energy into a platform designed to benefit all of us, and I was being taken advantage of. It drained me—emotionally, creatively, and financially. I started letting people go. I had to. I saw the signs two and a half months in, and I pulled folks aside to talk about it. They didn’t like it. I didn’t enjoy it either, but my name was on the line. Publicly, I pulled out gracefully. Privately, I had a hard conversation with myself.
I had to reclaim my power. Piece by peace—and I mean exactly that.
That’s when I decided to record another album. One day, I was reviewing a royalty statement from Label Worx, and something didn’t sit right. I discovered that my music was being pulled from digital stores. Just like that. I thought—wait a minute—this is my legacy. These songs are proof that I was here, that I existed, that I created something meaningful. God forbid something happened to me, I wanted the world to know what I did, what I gave.
I couldn’t let that go. So I found a new distributor and began re-releasing my earlier work—this time with updated covers to distinguish myself from the other artists named Martone. Even now, it’s still a struggle each month to ensure that our catalogs remain separate. But I’m determined. It’s frustrating, yes, but I remind myself—this is about protecting my identity and the art that reflects my life. My logo in a stylized font has always represented me, but now I understand that sometimes, even your name needs a rebirth.
And I’ve always believed this: when you return to something you’ve stepped away from, you must approach it with new eyes. And I have. With more clarity. With purpose. With fire.
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