Frank’s Corner #10: In Conversation With Michael Martine of The Bilinda Butchers
Big tours, returning to small worlds, and re-living 16-year-old promises.
Well…here we are at the tenth installation of this little interview chronicle of mine, and I must say…the roster as it stands has already far exceeded my itty-bitty expectations. This particular addition is a bucket list check-off and one that, quite frankly, I never thought I’d get to do because this band is just so enormously famous to me.
Michael Martine, the head honcho of The Bilinda Butchers, appeared on our call, sipping coffee from a mug no bigger than my pinky, his walls, blurred by the call feature, lined with the silhouettes of guitars varying in size, color, and function. He’s the type of guy you imagine as a rockstar before you begin a conversation, with a single silver buckle bracelet and a snazzy black button-up shirt bringing such an image to physical fruition.
He could have answered my questions like a complete diva, blowing off a starving journalist like me with one-word answers to get the damn interview over with, and I would have been happy that I’d have even a little content to glue together into a conversation.
This could not have been further from the reality and nature of our nearly hour-and-a-half FaceTime pow-wow.
Martine, art-obsessed and puppeteered by literature, spoke with an eagerness and excitement of art and media as inspiration in such rich, informed, and uniquely particular scopes. The most astounding part of this chat, however, was the hesitations to speak highly of his music that I could word vomit praise to until my stomach was empty and my vocal chords were raw. As the semi-professional I am, I choked down the inner fanboy and listened, and listened, and listened.
Anyways.
What an honor to get to bring this conversation to life FINALLY. We chatted about all things Bilinda Butchers, Martine’s side ambient project, formative literature, and so so so much more. I hope you enjoy it. It’s a great one.
25F: How have things been with your move? All settled in SF?
Michael: It’s up and down. I’m originally from San Francisco. My wife is from Orange County. In 2018, we moved to New York and remained there until last month.
Where in the city were you?
Ridgewood. We were in the same place the whole time. We had a great spot and got a buddy to take it over, thankfully. My dad is getting older, and we have all our families here. For several reasons, it just made sense to move back. We moved in with my mother-in-law and are just regrouping, taking it day by day. During COVID, I also started writing literary fiction.
Oh, good stuff.
I finished my first novel in New York and came to a crossroads, deciding I wanted to really focus on my second novel. Moving here, I’m unemployed, just writing, kind of working on music. So I’m taking this time to really dedicate myself to writing.
I was actually reading about the opening track of “Heaven”, “Ume”, and the storyline behind it, which I thought was cool. Were you writing literary fiction back then, too, or was it just for the lore of the album?
I think when I describe myself or my work to other people, I always asterisk the term “musician.” I consider myself a songwriter, not particularly great at instruments—I play guitar and keys. I like world-building and storytelling, but didn’t go to college, just have a passion that music fulfilled. My work often became about symbolism and big ideas. That record was the first time I wanted to explore that, though not fully realized. I’ve always considered Bilinda Butcher’s a playground and a place to experiment. My buddy Adam Honingford and I started the band in middle school, infatuated with music. We loved My Bloody Valentine and wanted to explore that kind of sound. Since then, it’s always been an exploration—we genre hop because we’re infatuated with different sounds and ideas and just explore them.
I feel a bit reluctant talking about it or taking pride, because it’s always exploratory, which makes sense now with my writing. Writing feels like my true love. Music was the starting point, and though I still make music, those lines are now more distinctly separate.
I found an interview from when you were 16 with a quote I loved about getting started that I want your take on.
Oh god.
It reads, “Just so it’s somewhere to be read for people who might one day really follow us and develop a relationship with our music—that the songs we wrote when we were younger and put our all in are stepping stones to where we were hoping to release now.” That seemed profound; do you feel that way now?
Wow. It’s funny, I’m usually embarrassed by everything I’ve said and done in the past. That quote is one of the very few lucid things I’ve said. I’m 35 now; Adam and I started the band when we were 16 and grew from there. I’ve had a weird relationship with the band because of its long origin—I was a different person then and feel embarrassed by it sometimes, but I’m surprised I said that. It is true; Bilinda Butchers has been a way to explore the creative process. We were privileged and lucky that people resonated, which gave us opportunities to explore more. We’ve toured Asia, toured the US, and met cool people. I look at it more as practice rather than life-defining.
Music is another language; my friend said it’s great because it gives you a language to speak in. You don’t have to make a song—it’s like therapy. You can play with this language to articulate different shades of experience without words, and it just feels right.
That’s true for me too, and probably every musician—it’s a tinkering outlet and suddenly poof, something cool is there. On that note, I took a listen to your ambient project—it’s great. I’m a huge ambient music listener.
Oh, cool. Thanks! It isn’t everyone’s cup of tea; there are lots of styles. I grew up with jazz and smooth jazz, so music for me is like a soundtrack, always in the background. So ambient music has always resonated with me. I’m proud of that project because it was the first time I executed what I wanted and did it all on my own. A great product of tinkering and playing around without rules or expectations.
Drone on!
Hell yeah.
When I first found The Bilinda Butchers, it was with “Secrets” from “Regret, Love, Guilt, and Dreams.” It was my third most listened-to song last year on Spotify. It’s that type of music that keeps me up at night in a great way.
That makes me happy, thanks. I understand where you’re coming from. That ethereal, emotional soundtrack kind of stuff is what I’m drawn to. I’m a fan of Aphex Twin’s ambient for that reason—it speaks to a depth of human experience that sounds articulate better than lyrics.
When you’re creating other projects—like “Night and Blur” and their B-sides—what was that process like when their “A-Sides,” if that’s what you call them, have already been out for so long?
That album came out in June 2020. We take a long time to work—much of it written in 2016 and 2017, so it feels like talking about someone from my past. Touring in Asia was influential—the validation was intense. The environment was surreal—playing thousand-cap venues in Shanghai after feeling like the band was over was a sudden reversal. It was jarring and validating—really cool, and then after coming home, everything went back to normal, and the music just sort of sticks around there.
Was the change in music production tech another curve that ultimately made the music different as time passed?
We started making music early in the MacBook era, with GarageBand’s proliferation. Collaboration has been sparse because of the ability to write and explore in isolation—Adam and I write our own songs, share and shape them, but they’re inherently distinct. When Lukas Untersteiner joined, the foundation stayed the same—each wrote their own, and we’d shape it all together.
Did these shifts change the way you guys envisioned a “perfect tour”?
My bandmates are less cynical than me, but I feel we never reach the benchmark for a good show. My relationship with Bilinda Butchers exists in two worlds—writing music I love, then putting it out there. Solitary creative process, then public perception. I feel a bit disconnected from fans, since once you put something out, it’s not yours anymore.
People’s perceptions change your own, and sometimes it’s hard to see your work clearly. In China and elsewhere in Asia, our first EP “Regret, Love, Guilt, and Dreams” is how people seem to find us—music I wrote at 16 that I’ve outgrown. It’s flattering but also embarrassing—diplomatically, I don’t understand why people still like it, since it feels archaic to me.
I’m always flattered, but when someone feels strongly about our work, it’s strange because I don’t feel moved by it anymore. Performing feels more like acting, so I find it difficult to play live conceptually.
When I first reached out this past summer, I asked about that project turning 14. Is looking back at your old projects like this one a fond experience, or do you want to escape it? Does imposter syndrome return, or do you feel proud?
It’s interesting; I don’t often think about it that way. I take my work seriously. I’m a first-generation American; my Polish parents wanted me to take advantage of America, so creativity became important. Now that I’m older and privileged to write and make music, my philosophy is that my work is like children—important, but not always active in my life.
Initially, I was hesitant to even talk about Bilinda Butchers since I’m still figuring out my relationship with past work. It’s a journey—trying to be a good “dad” to old work.
For me, it’s so important to bring up your work specifically—even if you haven’t released new music recently, I really do think people need to hear it. It’s a big part of my life and my rotation. So many bands don’t release for a long time, but they stick around for millions or just one or two listeners. I think your stuff is a major proponent of this, at least in my world.
That’s sweet; I appreciate that. At the end of the day, I do love the work, and I’m so prone to brain dumping about it. It’s therapeutic to let it free like this with other creative, passionate people.
Looking back, what would your 16-year-old self say to you now?
I have no idea, genuinely. I feel fundamentally different—it’s hard to answer. Maybe more interesting is what I would say to them. I had a lot of neuroses about the creative process. My foray into music was through the internet—I consumed a lot online, and had friends making music locally. At some point, the goal shifted to wanting a career in music, growing, and making money. The gateway was the Beatles and Led Zeppelin—I wanted to be a star, but eventually those priorities blurred.
I lost the plot for a bit, thinking about leveraging the band, making it a business. As I got older, a friend’s question—why did I make music in the first place—was profound. I forgot it was because I just enjoyed it; it was fun. I’d tell my younger self to focus on the process, not the outcome. The business side can be toxic, but art’s value isn’t just in success.
When I was younger, meeting Kip Berman from Pains of Being Pure at Heart was pivotal—he told me to never stop. Even during neuroses and stress, I’ve always had the compulsion to keep creating.
Much of your inspiration seems to come from what you consume—writing, books, film. What inspires you in literature, music, etc.?
I fundamentally feel like a writer, most influenced by literature. Gabriel García Márquez is my favorite; “Love in the Time of Cholera” is fantastic, though I’m lukewarm on “A Hundred Years of Solitude.” I love his style—journalistic but poetic.
I haven’t read him, but I will now.
He’s worth reading—famous for “A Hundred Years of Solitude.” More importantly, my life is punctuated by searching for identity. “Art and Fear” is another pivotal book, a kind of bible for creatives, talking about the value of creativity. It’s essential reading.
My taste is broad—ambient music, jazz are my favorites. Still getting into movies. My bandmates are vital—Lukas, Adam, and Brock Lowry all make huge impacts. I tend to be the spokesperson, but nothing happens without them.
From speaking to you today, the band is a further extension of you than I would have thought before speaking to you. Selfishly, I still want to know what’s next, if any foresight exists.
The band is in a growth period now—I’m insecure about it sometimes, but excited to see what happens next. It’s always great to talk about, and I’m excited to put ideas into action.
Listen to The Bilinda Butchers on Spotify and Bandcamp. Check out Michael’s side project “For you and you alone’ here.