Martone: The Emperor Who Refused to Be Silenced

Before the sequins, the spotlight, and the title of “Emperor of House Music,” there was simply Martone—a warrior spirit born into a world that tried to quiet him. In this intimate conversation, the trailblazing artist strips back the stage lights to reveal the fire beneath: a defiant soul who turned pain into power, heartbreak into anthem, and silence into a roar. From reclaiming his name to collaborating with fierce forces like Intelligent Diva, Martone speaks with unflinching honesty about love, loss, identity, and the unapologetic truth at the core of his art. This is more than an interview—it’s a reckoning, a revival, and a testimony to the resilience of a voice that refused to be erased.

Martone, you’ve called yourself “The Emperor of House Music.” But before the title, before the spotlight—who were you, and what part of that person still lives in the music today?

For a long time, I was someone constantly told who I could and couldn’t be. Growing up, people tried to reshape me into what made them comfortable. In relationships, at work, in the industry—there was always someone trying to shrink my contributions or dismiss my power. But I’ve come to realize, I’m not breaking the mold—I am the mold. The name Martone itself is rooted in strength—it comes from the Roman god of war, Mars. That warrior energy has always been in me, even when I didn’t know how to name it. When Darrin Johnson called me “The Emperor of House Music,” something clicked. I finally leaned into it. Not just as a title, but as a reclaiming of everything that was ever taken or questioned. That early version of me—the one who survived in silence—is still here. But now, he has a throne.

Your new single “Too Bad, So Sad” is raw, emotional, and coincidentally arrives just days after your divorce. Was this song your way of saying what words couldn’t?

Absolutely. This song wasn’t just a release—it was a reckoning. I was living through the unraveling of a chapter I thought would last forever. My voice was gone in so many ways—emotionally, legally, financially. Music gave it back to me. “Too Bad, So Sad” became my outlet for grief, anger, and finally, clarity. I didn’t want to wallow—I wanted to rise. And in the process, I realized that even my heartbreak had power. The song let me transform pain into purpose.

The collaboration with Intelligent Diva is powerful. When you hear her verse—her fire, her truth—what does it stir in you?

Her performance is fierce—it cuts through the beat like a blade. Honestly, it might be one of her best moments on record. There’s a contrast between us that works: her fire and my depth create this emotional push and pull that people really feel. I respect what she brought to the table—it amplified the message in a way only she could. We both showed up for this track in our own ways, and that’s what made it unforgettable. I’ll always appreciate the magic we captured together on this one.

You’ve built a reputation as a fierce advocate for the LGBTQ+ community. Has there ever been a moment when the music industry asked you to dim your light? And if so, how did you respond?

Too many moments to count. People say, “Be humble,” but what they really mean is, “Don’t make us uncomfortable.” Whether it was labels, execs, or even peers—they’ve tried to confine me, told me I was too much or too loud. But I’ve learned that shrinking yourself to fit someone else’s comfort doesn’t serve you—it suffocates you. Now, when someone tries to dim my light, I burn even brighter. That’s my act of rebellion. That’s my pride.

Heartbreak is universal, but healing is personal. What helped you heal, Martone?

I’m still healing. That’s the truth. But I’ve come to understand that healing isn’t a straight line—it’s a revolution within yourself. What helped? Taking back my narrative. Reclaiming my space. Being vulnerable with my art—even when it scared me. At times, the biggest heartbreak hasn’t come from love lost, but from systems that failed me. Being denied what I was owed, being silenced or sidelined—those moments break something inside you. But I kept showing up. I kept creating. And every time I did, I stitched a piece of myself back together.

You’ve released music, poetry, and spoken openly about deeply personal experiences. Is there ever a moment when vulnerability becomes too difficult—or is it the source of your strength?

It’s both. Vulnerability is uncomfortable. But it’s also where my greatest power lies. I’ve faced betrayals, gaslighting, and institutions trying to bury the truth. I’ve been tested in ways people don’t see—and I’ve had to find strength in that silence. What I’ve learned is this: when you walk through fire and tell the story with your own voice, you become unstoppable. Vulnerability is how I protect my peace and warn others. It’s not weakness—it’s a sword I know how to wield.

You once said that you want your music to be a beacon for those who’ve felt silenced. When in your life did you feel silenced—and what finally gave you your voice?

I’ve felt silenced since birth. I was born into survival mode, into a world that saw me as too Black, too queer, too loud, too me. People constantly tried to reshape or erase me. But I found my voice when I realized that silence was killing me—and it wasn’t mine to carry anymore. Music, poetry, storytelling—these gave me oxygen. They reminded me that I was never “too much.” I was exactly enough. And that truth gave me my roar.

If you could go back and speak to the version of yourself before the fame, before the pain, before the triumphs—what would you tell him?

I’d say: “They’re going to try to break you. And some days, they’ll almost succeed. But don’t let them confuse ‘different’ with ‘less.’ Don’t swallow your brilliance to survive. You’re not here to be liked—you’re here to reign. And when it gets hard—and it will—remember the meaning of your name. You are Martone. A warrior. And someday, they’ll call you Emperor—not because you asked for it, but because you earned it.”