“I remember scratching the bark of a tree, and it felt like I was unlocking a new world.”
Image by Majka Zawrzykraj
Described as ‘weightless, slowcore chamber pop’, Martyna Basta’s meditative and slightly haunting music is filled with the sounds I imagine live in a forest at night — gently swelling coos, the rustling of crawling creatures, fingers prickling into sticky, moist marsh, moans and howls, swallows and breaths, splashing noises, the faint chiming of cowbells, and surround sound whispers. I caught myself searching ‘how do you describe the voice of a ghost’. It’s clear that she pictures sound in three dimensions — the textures Basta uses feel tactile and at times, uncomfortably close. Their eeriness becomes soothing when woven into the lullabies she’s made out of her memories. But like trying to remember what she told you in a dream, the memories are distorted. There’s vague notes of a conversation but you don’t remember the exact words, just the sound of their voice, and that it was of importance.
Basta’s layered melodies are able to hold the quality of something forgotten but deeply felt. These soundscapes become spiritual offerings, lingering in your mind (gladly and rent-free).
Your music, and the world you build in general, lies somewhere in between heavenly and haunting. What is it about those extremes that draws you in?
I think, more than anything, I just try to follow whatever direction feels like it’s calling me — and more often than not, it leads me somewhere completely unexpected. That’s part of what draws me in. It’s not about setting a strict path, but about being open to where the process wants to go. In a way, that’s at the heart of what hauntology is about: this sense of being guided by something slightly out of reach, something shaped by context, memory, and absence.
For me, composing is less about constructing and more about uncovering. It’s like there’s this thin, transparent veil between me and the world of sound, and my role is to gently pull it back to reveal what’s already there but not yet heard. I don’t always know what I’m looking for, but there’s a kind of trust in the process, in allowing intuition and subtle cues to lead the way. Sometimes, it feels like the music is already present, just waiting to be noticed.
You left the classical guitar world at 18 to chase experimentation over perfection—how has your classical training influenced your music today? Has it been hard to let go of the mindset that you were trained with?
Oh, definitely – to both questions. My classical training has shaped me in ways I still feel deeply today, even though I moved away from that world. One of the most enduring impacts of my classical background is how I continue to perceive music in such a visual way. The knowledge of music notation has become a kind of mental map for me. I think in terms of altitudes, rhythms, and spatial relationships — like I can almost picture sound in three dimensions. I see music as more tangible, something that can be physically experienced, rather than just abstract sound. That perspective makes the act of creating and listening feel more grounded and real to me.
Even though I left the classical tradition, I still try to draw from everything I’ve learned — I view it as a gift. The challenge lies in reconciling the classical mindset, which is often about striving for perfection, with my current focus on experimentation. There’s a natural tension between those two worlds, but I find what happens in that space to be the most exciting. It’s in that intersection where something new and interesting emerges, where the structure of classical training meets the freedom of experimentation, and that tension drives much of what I do today.
There’s something meditative about your music — those repetitive sounds really wrap around the listener. Your synths, modulated voices, electronics, and field recordings feel like a prayer or mantra. Is there a spiritual element to what you’re creating?
I think spirituality is such a vast, deeply personal experience, and it varies from person to person, so I wouldn’t say that it can ever be fully possessed by a single thing or experience. I do feel that what I create often carries a sense of intimacy and force — it’s something that feels bigger than me. There’s a rawness to it, like it comes from deep within, almost like it’s been pulled from the very core of my being. Once it’s out there, it takes on a life of its own. In a way, it’s no longer mine. It exists independently in the world, and that transformation from internal to external is something that feels almost spiritual – like a kind of release or offering. The repetitive sounds and layers, with all the electronics and field recordings, become a vessel for that feeling.
It’s quite precious how you approach sounds, saving and archiving and revisiting them. What’s your first memory of a sound that should be ‘saved’?
It was in a forest, a few years ago. I remember scratching the bark of a tree, and it felt like I was unlocking a new world. Now, looking back, that memory feels even more unique — not that I’ve become desensitised to small sounds, but I’m in a different phase of exploration now. I’m approaching music and sound in a different way, which is, of course, natural. But that moment, the purity of it, is still there in my mind as a touchstone.
Whats been a highlight for you while working on your music? And what’s been the hardest part?
The highlight for me is the never-ending curiosity about what’s coming next — that sense of constant discovery. It’s the idea that there’s still so much to unlock, so much yet to explore and it never gets boring. But then, the most challenging part is the doubt that creeps in — especially when I start questioning whether it all even matters. In a world that feels like it’s falling apart, I often wonder what difference my music, my work, is making. Sometimes, it just doesn’t feel like it’s enough and I can’t help but question whether I’m doing the right thing or if I’m just adding to the noise. So, I try to hold on to a kind of blind faith in what I feel I’m capable of — trusting that, even if I can’t always see the impact, this is what I’m meant to do.
Your music is very diaristic and often made during times where you challenged yourself. How do you navigate being transported back to times that might have been difficult and reliving those feelings?
Sometimes, it feels like music is the way I process and make sense of things that might have been too overwhelming to confront head-on at the time. In a way, it’s a language that allows me to express what words often fail to capture. I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with words — I’ve tried starting diaries, writing letters, but they always felt too rigid, too confined. There’s a structure to words that never quite matched the fluidity of what I wanted to say.
Music, however, fills that gap. It becomes the space where feelings, thoughts, and memories can exist freely, without the limitations of language. It’s less about conveying something precisely and more about creating an environment where those emotions can breathe and be felt.
Being a musician means performing live — which you’ve mentioned you’re fearful of. How has your relationship to it evolved?
I’ve always been someone who prefers to experience music in solitude, often lost in the depths of it through headphones, rather than sharing it in a crowded space at a gig. Similarly, I tend to retreat into my own hideout. So, the act of sharing my music so openly, putting it out there for others to experience, feels like a tension between my natural inclination as an introvert and the demands of stepping into an extroverted world. There’s a kind of conflict in that space, one that I constantly navigate — balancing the comfort of solitude with the necessity of putting myself and my work in front of others. But as time goes on, it’s become a way of confronting and overcoming a fear — and, in many ways, that’s something I’m learning to embrace.
Who is your biggest musical inspiration?
There are honestly so many. But lately my biggest inspiration was music that is a lot different than mine.
And who or what inspires you outside of music?
Walking around, being alone and quiet, observing the world in motion, micro and macro scales, getting stronger, overcoming things, facing fears, kindness and love.
You’ve also mentioned photography as something you love. Have you had the time to dive into that more?
Honestly, I wish I had more time for photography, but I’m so absorbed by the world of sound that it’s mostly limited to the endless photos on my phone. I used to take pictures from specific spots and then sit and show them to people, often getting a response like, “Why are you showing me this? We’re already here.” But to me, the photo always seemed to capture something different, something about the moment that felt more interesting or complete. That used to happen a lot, but not as much anymore.
I relate to that, haha. How does photography connect to your artistry, and are there parallels with your musical work?
In both photography and music, I’m often trying to capture something elusive, something that’s just on the edge of my grasp. Both mediums push me to explore what lies beyond the surface, to uncover things that are hidden or hard to articulate. They’re both about giving form to the intangible, whether it’s through sound or light, and creating a space where that intangible can be experienced. That’s the parallel I see – they both invite me to connect with something that’s not fully there.
What song has been on repeat for you lately?
Ethel Cain — Vacillator
What’s a question that I haven’t asked, but should?
I’m not sure, but maybe something like, “Have you had enough water today?”
Did you?
It’s funny, but for me, hydration is almost a little ritual. Whenever I feel anxious or unsettled, I find myself drinking an entire glass of water, almost like I believe it will change something.
I hope you’re hydrated then! It’s been two years since Slowly Remembering, Barely Forgetting — what’s next for you? Is your sound evolving, or are you deepening that sound archive you’ve been building?
I have a new album on the way, along with two other projects that have piled up and are ready to be released. I find myself caught between what’s familiar and the possibilities of reshaping it. Definitely reconnecting with words too. Again and again.
Understandable, the options are endless. However what’s (been) familiar to you, is more often than not very new for others… so don’t get too tied up! We’d love to hear more from you soon <3
Words by Pykel van Latum
Imagery by Majka Zawrzykraj and Filip Preis
Notifications
