Death is not the end. I know it. Plus, thinking that this life is all we have seems cruel. For me, the whole universe is one living entity with everything connected to it. As we age, we inevitably view life differently. Last year, I lost my post-college roommate, Rob, my pickleball partner, Brant, and other acquaintances known from my 40+ years in Manhattan and a few from my youth in Ohio. This year, we lost our beloved dog, Nikki, and just two weeks ago, my dear friend and partner-in-music, Martin John Butler.
I met Martin walking our pups in Riverside Park in Manhattan about 12 years ago. The tall, lanky dude was opinionated but tres cool, dressed in black, strutting with confidence. A real New Yorker who grew up in Brooklyn, never one to suffer fools. Plenty of chutzpah and whip-smart on various subjects—politics, films, books, architecture, stereo equipment, vocal microphones, UFOs, Atlantis, to name a few. I cherished our morning walks as we attempted to make sense of our crazy world. But we truly bonded over our love of music—listening, writing, producing, and playing it.
He'd been in some kickass rock 'n' roll bands in the early '70s. He was on the cusp of megastardom. The glam-rock quartet Pandora and one of the first wave of punk rockers, The Demons. Those bands featured some "heavy" music luminaries—drummer Frank LaRocca, bassist Buzzy Verno, vocalist Rick Prince, guitarist Walter Lure, et al.—from the music scene in New York. And he knew plenty of the most famous rockers and bands on the scene. His bands also graced the stages at all the legendary music venues like CBGB, Mudd Club, Dancetaria, and Max's Kansas City.
Martin would eventually leave rock 'n' roll and become an award-winning music composer. And, he would become a critically acclaimed singer-songwriter and release two exceptional solo albums of original music. After his divorce from his wife, he moved to Nashville to be around the best songwriters on the planet. It was there that he started working on his next album. Here's one of his new songs—"I Thank You For Everything"—from his last live performance in his hospital bed in September 2024.
But, he was also a brilliant guitar teacher, teaching my children, Luca and Mina, several friends, and countless others in New York and Nashville how to navigate a guitar neck. Even his doctor in Nashville took lessons from him when he was around and if Martin had the strength.
He was like the older brother I never had. He was there for me when my father, Joseph, and then my brother, David, died a year apart, my only sibling in a horrible motorcycle mishap. He had been in one himself and had his second NDE (near-death experience). He had his first as a young boy. He shared how mystical both ordeals were for him. It had changed his perception of death. He was no longer afraid of it.
Marty, as I fondly called him, one of the few people allowed to call him that name, had requested that I get to Nashville quickly, saying he was not long for this world. He had been through the meat grinder. And I agreed. It was his time to go "home" and free himself of the accumulated suffering, the countless hospital visits to drain his decaying transplanted liver (well past its expiration date), his numerous bile duct stent operations, his four cracked vertebrae that had to be fused, his double hernia that couldn't be repaired because of the stents. Yet, his will to squeeze every ounce out of his battered body was genuinely remarkable. And inspirational. But he was ready to move on. His body was worn out.
On our last time together, Friday, February 14th, the day before his trip to the other side, I played him some new songs that he helped improve. (Those songs will be on my next album, Maximus Americanus.) Though he was physically weak, his spirit was still burning bright. I truly valued his opinion and input on song structure and lyrics. I always valued his mixing ideas, even though I didn't always agree. He co-produced two of my albums and mixed several of my singles.
As he lay in bed, trying hard to stay awake, he ate half of a Magnolia Banana Pudding cookie and weakly smiled, enjoying the treat as he railed against the pain. His doctor was there, marveling at his remarkable will to live. So was artist James Willis (a fellow Upper Westsider and close friend), who had been his main anchor and lifeline in Nashville for two years. Ditto my friend Stewart, a longtime Nashville resident, who had helped him move several times when he had to downscale his life. As James noted, it was a proper music send-off. I told Marty I would take care of his music legacy (publishing).
He was also battling a week-long chest cold, which was intensely painful when he coughed, fearful that he might break another vertebra. I played one last song, "Ghosts," written about my ghost experience in London in the late '90s. The chorus was befitting for my fading friend, who had told me he could see his spirit guides (angels) at the foot of his bed. He prayed that he would pass while he was sleeping. I secretly prayed as well.
“Cuz we’re all ghosts who leave trails behind / Waiting to cross to the other side.
We’re all ghosts who just hang on / Trapped by the walls we can’t knock down.”
After the song, he whispered to me quietly, "Do you know what is a miracle? Of all the millions of people in New York City... we met and became friends. You were there for me when I needed you. I will be there for you when it's your time to pass." I nodded and told him I loved him.
The next day, Saturday, February 15th, I arrived in the early afternoon to take his lunch order. When I got to the hospice, the receptionist told me that the head nurse would meet me at his station. My body tensed up. I knew the score. The head nurse, Bryan (originally a cop from New York), met me when I got off the elevator. He shared the news I dreaded. Martin had passed just thirty minutes earlier as he offered his heartfelt condolences. (A week later, he was on my flight back to New York to visit his daughter on her birthday.) I wept, knowing I had missed one final chance to hang out with my friend.
When James arrived 15 minutes later, we discussed Martin's final wishes as we awaited the hospice nurse to prepare his body for cremation. We placed a guitar pick on each eye, his favorite red scarf, one of James's woodcut prints, and other personal items. Although we were sad, we were relieved that his suffering was finally over. Another male nurse approached us and said, "I'm not religious but spiritual. When your friend passed, the emergency exit (the door next to Martin's room) started opening and closing, and the alarm went off." He seemed shaken by the event. I said with tears, "Elvis has finally left the building."
I know in my soul that Marty has already started his next band on the other side. He is running free with our pups, Nikki and Charlie, and finally exploring the real truths of our strange and beautiful universe.
Not just a lovely tribute but clearly a great man and a major influence on you. I'm sorry you have gone through so much loss, Mark, I feel like you've had more than most.
Thank you for sharing a bit about Marty and your experiences with him. Lucky soul bros, you are.