It’s late afternoon in Alexandria, Virginia, and Mundane’s laugh cuts through the breeze like a hook you can’t shake. “Man, I’m just tryna be my own boss,” he says, leaning back in his chair, the skyline flickering off a nearby glass building. “That corporate shit pays, but it’s not what I want to do. I wanna expand my portfolio, you know — do my own thing.”

It’s an unfiltered moment from a conversation that moves as fast and freely as the mind of the man sitting across from me: Michael Martir, known to fans and friends alike as Mundane. He’s the kind of artist who answers every question like it’s a verse — measured but melodic, self-aware but never self-serious.

Born in the Philippines, raised in Woodbridge, Virginia, Mundane’s story is one of cross-currents: a kid navigating cultures, heartbreaks, and DMV ambition, trying to make something new out of all of it. “I was raised in the Philippines ‘til I was like 12, 13,” he says. “My mom was over here working — American Dream shit. My dad, I didn’t even meet him until I got here. But when I finally did, everything started.”

Everything, for Mundane, has meant sound. Drum lessons from his grandfather turned into beatboxing contests at school; freestyle sessions turned into studio marathons. “Man, I used to be the ‘beatbox kid,’” he laughs. “Performing at other schools, even on the radio. Then I moved here and all the kids were like, ‘Yo, beatbox something!’ I was like, nah, I’m not tryna be known as the beatbox kid.” Instead, he found his voice — the one that now carries through playlists, playlists, and weekend drives up I-95.

In early 2025, Mundane released Virginia’s Boy, an album both literal and poetic. The title nods to his grandmother, Virginia, who passed away while he was still in high school. “She died when I was like 15 or 16,” he says. “I never got to see her after she passed. So the title was my little nod to her — like, ‘Hey, I’m still here.’”

It’s a project steeped in reflection but dressed in satin. Where his previous record, New Women, Same Mistakes, was rap-leaning and raw, Virginia’s Boy glows with R&B texture — smooth falsettos, hazy synths, and late-night energy that feels like the moment after the after-party. “With the first one, I was tryna cater to the DMV sound,” he admits. “I was like, ‘Look, I’m Asian, but I can get down with the DMV sound too.’ But later I realized — yeah, I love that sound, but it’s not who I am at my core. I feel more when I sing.”

That realization unlocked something new. On Virginia’s Boy, he isn’t proving himself; he’s being himself. “The first album was about women I had mistakes with,” he says. “It was me saying, ‘I can hang with y’all. I live this shit too.’ But this one was different. I was in a clearer headspace. Life was better. I wasn’t angry anymore.”

When I tell him the record feels like a soundtrack for midnight drives — something you can throw on like Take Care or Nothing Was the Same — his eyes light up. “Great comparison, bro,” he laughs. “Drake gets clowned for being the Target of music, but I like that accessibility. I like that he can tap into different markets, different moods. That’s what I want too.”

The duality runs deep. In conversation, Mundane bounces between sincerity and sarcasm, Virginia drawl and Manila swagger. His worldview comes from both: the hunger of an immigrant kid and the cool of an East Coast artist who knows what he’s worth.

“When I go back to the Philippines, it’s rehab for me,” he says. “When I was younger, I didn’t really get to experience my city. Now I go back, I’m an adult, I can move how I want. It’s refreshing, but it also humbles you. You see people living on less than a dollar a day. Meanwhile over here, the norm is dropping a thousand on shoes. It puts everything in perspective.”

It’s a perspective that fuels him creatively, too. “Yeah, I like nice shit,” he grins. “But I also remember why I want it. Growing up poor makes you want something grander. When I got here, sneakerhead culture made me even more bougie. Back in middle school, what shoes you had determined if you were cool or not. That’s when I realized I could never go back to feeling small.”

Still, his ambitions extend beyond material flexes. He talks about New York and Toronto with the same reverence that some rappers reserve for heaven. “I like places where you don’t need a car,” he says. “Toronto, that’s probably gonna be my second base. It’s only an hour-thirty flight from D.C. anyway. I’ve been tapping in with hella people there. The vibe’s crazy.”

If Mundane’s music is sensual, his lifestyle is disciplined. “Aside from music and fashion, I’m really into fitness,” he says. “I lost myself a couple years back. I used to be big. I’m five-three — my normal weight should be 140, but I was like 180. People don’t understand that struggle when you’re short. So I got back in the gym. I even became a boxing instructor for a while.”

He smiles when he says it, half-joking but dead serious about the results. “I’m tryna be a D’Angelo type of physique,” he laughs. “I’m tryna be a sex symbol, man.”

The joke lands, but beneath it is intent: to control his narrative, his body, his brand. “Bro, I grew up unattractive,” he says. “That’s why I’m a good person morally. A lot of people grew up pretty, and now they got bad hearts. Me? I got my morals up first.”

It’s classic Mundane — self-deprecating and confident in the same breath. The humility is real, but so is the hunger. Every gym session, every studio night, every city trip is another rep in the bigger pursuit: longevity.

If New Women, Same Mistakes was heartbreak, Virginia’s Boy is healing. But the scars are part of the sound. “That first project was about two girls,” he admits. “My first girlfriend of five years — she didn’t exactly cheat, but she left me for another dude. My second one? Yeah, she cheated on me—with hella people. That shit messed me up. But it made me stronger. Gave me content. I had to process all that.”

When he says it, there’s no bitterness — just perspective. “I was trying to prove to my exes, like, ‘Yeah, bitch, look at this,’” he laughs, then pauses. “But now I’m good. Life’s good. Sometimes it’s even hard to write now because I’m happy. But that’s okay. That’s the point.”

Instead of heartbreak, Mundane finds inspiration in relationships — romantic and otherwise. “Lately it’s been real life,” he says. “Family, friends, lessons from older people. I talk to folks in different careers, different worlds. Like, someone on Wall Street might tell me how that game works, and I’ll find a way to turn that into a song.”

He’s studied the great storytellers — Biggie, Drake, even Filipino songwriters. “When I went back home, I met one of my grandma’s high school classmates. He’s an award-winning songwriter out there. He taught me how to turn anything into a song. Like, he put a half-empty bottle on a table and said, ‘Let’s write about this. Maybe it’s a girl who feels half-empty but half-full at the same time.’ That changed how I see everything.”

For all his humility, Mundane understands presentation. His visuals look expensive even when they’re DIY. “I just like showing people what I’m on,” he says. “I used to think posting my music too much was annoying, but then my engineer told me, ‘You pay for the beat, you record, you write, you shoot a video — and you post it once? Do you even care about it?’ Tyler, the Creator said that too. So now I post as much as I want.”

Still, he’s thoughtful about it. “There’s a balance,” he says. “You don’t wanna spam people, but you also can’t hide your work. The algorithm’s only gonna show it once anyway.”

He credits that same intentionality to his circle — people who treat art as friendship, not business. “The industry’s already business enough,” he says. “When I link with someone, I want it to be organic. Like, we’re not just music friends. We’re friends, period.”

That attitude is why the DMV scene keeps him close even as he looks outward. “Seeing people like [Shaboozey] and Tommy [Richman] blow up — it’s inspiring,” he says. “It shows we can make it without doing some nine-to-five government shit. But at the same time, I’m not rushing. I know my lane.”

If you ask Mundane, he’ll tell you he’s not really a people person. Then he’ll talk to you for hours. “I’m good at conversation,” he shrugs, “but I get overwhelmed sometimes.”

He chalks it up to being a Leo. “We like being in the spotlight, but without the interaction,” he laughs. “I like people to know about me, but I don’t need them to show me they know about me. Like, if I could be on some Frank Ocean shit, that’d be perfect.”

He pauses, watching a group of kids run by the water. “I admire people who can just live life without showing it,” he says. “But me? I like showing it. It’s fun. It’s that Leo shit.”

As we wrap, Mundane reflects on what keeps him grounded. “Honestly, man, I’m just grateful,” he says. “I used to think I had to prove myself — now I just wanna make good music and stay real.”

That realism, that refusal to fabricate the struggle, might be his secret weapon. “I’m not rich yet,” he says. “I make shit look sweet on the ‘gram, but I’m really just making things work. Hustling. Doing the right thing. That’s it.”

He still dreams big — but he’s not waiting for anyone’s permission. “I finally feel like Mundane now,” he says. “It took a while, but I do.”

As we get up to leave, he glances toward the water again, where the light hits just right — half full, half empty. “You know,” he says, smiling, “I think Virginia would be proud.”