This Former Navy SEAL is a Rock n' Roller. Marc Hansen

Paul Pantani
5 days ago
13 min read

Updated: 1 day ago

Electric Mud Lead Singer and Guitarist. His Passion is Music.

He entered BUD/S with a broken nose.

That detail alone changes how most people picture the start of a Navy SEAL story. Not because it’s heroic, but because it’s flawed, inconvenient, and risky. He didn’t arrive perfectly tuned or untouched. He showed up carrying damage, knowing it might cost him everything he was trying to earn.

That tension runs through this entire conversation.

Marc Hansen grew up in Staten Island, surrounded by brothers, music, and a steady sense that identity wasn’t handed to you. It was something you had to choose, test, and then live with. Long before the military, music shaped how he saw himself. Guitar players, record collections, and bands like the Eagles, Bon Jovi, the Rolling Stones, and Tom Petty weren’t just background noise. They were early markers of who he might become.

His path wasn’t clean. There was an arrest in his youth. An art school application. A serious look at advertising as a career. A month in Greece trying to figure things out. And then a deliberate turn toward the SEAL pipeline, not as an escape, but as a self-imposed standard.

What follows isn’t a highlight reel. It’s a story about persistence under constraint, identity carried across chapters, and the quiet weight of responsibility that comes after the uniform comes off.

Give a listen to Episode 229 by pushing play below, while you keep reading,

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From New York to the Navy, A SEAL Always Loved Rock n' Roll Music

Marc Hansen’s story doesn’t begin with a recruiter’s office or a pull-up bar. It starts in Staten Island, in a house shaped by siblings, routine work, and music playing somewhere in the background.

He grew up with multiple brothers, he’s 1 of 6 boys and there’s also two sisters, with a noticeable age gap that mattered. Older brothers tend to set the tone whether they mean to or not. In his case, one brother in particular was deeply into music. That mattered early. It wasn’t a future or a career, just something that existed. Something you spent time with. Something you paid attention to.

His father worked as a carpenter and tree cutter. Physical work. Long days. No mystery about effort or consequence. His mother stayed home, anchoring the household. There wasn’t anything cinematic about it, but it was consistent. Over time, the neighborhood itself changed. Houses replaced. Streets altered. The place he grew up didn’t stay frozen, and neither did he.

Music came into his life early and quietly. His mother arranged piano lessons through a church connection. He took them for a short while. Long enough to understand structure, not long enough to claim mastery. That pattern would repeat later in life. Touching something, testing it, deciding whether to stay.

As he got older, the pull shifted from piano to guitar players. Records mattered. He spent time going through collections, not skimming, but digging. Bands like the Eagles and Bon Jovi became anchors. Later, the Rolling Stones and Tom Petty joined the mix. This wasn’t about taste so much as identity. Music wasn’t a phase. It was a parallel thread forming before he had language for it.

The early years weren’t clean. There was an arrest during his youth. He got caught breaking into his high school, but he was just being a young kid; there was no maliciousness behind it. It disrupted the idea of a straight line forward. It introduced friction early. For a lot of people in this world, that kind of moment becomes either a footnote or a turning point. At the time, it was just part of the terrain.

He applied to the Fashion Institute of Technology with an art portfolio. That detail surprises people. It doesn’t fit the stereotype. But it fits the pattern. He was trying things that required effort and exposure. Creative work isn’t safer than physical work. It just fails differently. He wanted to work full-time and travel. Not escape. Move. See what held.

As he approached the end of his first year at FIT, the question sharpened. What now. He had conversations with a professor that stuck. Advertising was raised as a serious option. A real career. A place where his art background could land. This wasn’t dismissed out of hand. It was considered.

He transferred to community college. Then, as part of a class, he went to Greece for about a month. It wasn’t a vacation layered on top of certainty. It was a pause. Space to decide. For people who’ve lived inside high-tempo environments later in life, that kind of quiet is often harder than chaos. It forces honesty.

When he came back, the language changed. “I made my own history.” That line didn’t come after success. It came before commitment. It wasn’t a victory lap. It was a declaration of ownership. Whatever came next would be chosen, not inherited or drifted into.

Marc had always wanted to serve in the military. Besides his father and grandfather, all the boys served either in the Navy (2 were already Navy SEALs as well as his sister married a Navy SEAL) or as firefighters. Marc and his younger brother Matty went in together on SEAL contracts. He first had to learn the sidestroke. That matters to people who know the culture. It’s not glamorous. It’s functional. It’s also a gate. Learning it wasn’t about checking a box. It was about seeing if the work itself felt worth doing before claiming the identity.

During the last two years of college, the decision settled. This wasn’t a reaction to failure elsewhere. He had options. Advertising was still there. Music was still there. But the SEAL path represented a standard that couldn’t be negotiated with. You either met it or you didn’t.

A lot of people admire elite military careers from a distance. Fewer are willing to test themselves quietly before asking for a place. Before the uniform, before the pipeline, before the language changed, Marc’s story is already about friction, choice, and parallel identities. Music never went away. Art never vanished. Trouble didn’t disqualify him. None of it resolved cleanly.

It just set the conditions for what came next.

The Family Tradition of Service: Two Brothers were Already Navy SEALs

The decision to pursue the SEAL pipeline didn’t end the uncertainty. It sharpened it.

Once Marc committed, the work stopped being theoretical. Preparation wasn’t motivational. It was practical. Learning the sidestroke wasn’t symbolic. It was necessary.

For people familiar with the culture, that detail carries weight. You don’t get through the front door without it, and you don’t fake your way past it. Learning it was his way of answering a private question before anyone else could ask it. Can I do the work without the applause.

He enlisted in the Navy in 2010. That move closed some doors and narrowed others. Whatever else he could’ve become had to wait. The pipeline doesn’t care about your alternatives.

Then there was the nose.

After boot camp, Marc and Matty were in pre-BUD/S, still in Great Lakkes, waiting for a class date and to head to San Diego. As all brothers do, well at least Marc and Matty, they fight and Marc ended up with a broken nose. Then after a couple days it “set,” but the black and blue remained. Marc was sent to medical.

At some point, it became clear the issue wouldn’t resolve itself. He underwent an invasive nasal procedure; the doctor had to rebreak it to address the problem. It didn’t work the first time. Or the second. Each failed attempt carried the same question. How many chances do you get before the system decides for you.

Marc entered BUD/S with the residual from a broken nose. That’s not a metaphor. It’s not a story beat added later for effect. It’s a condition that directly interferes with breathing, underwater confidence, and control. In a pipeline that weaponizes stress around water, it’s a serious liability.

Breathing issues persisted. Training continued anyway.

Then came pool comp.

Within the culture, pool comp doesn’t need explanation. For those outside it, it’s enough to know that it’s designed to break your sense of control. Marc described it as “the worst thing ever.” That kind of statement isn’t said lightly by people who’ve already endured plenty.

What matters isn’t that it was hard. It’s that he stayed.

Then during SQT, he suffered a significant ankle sprain. Not the kind of injury you can hide. The kind that forces a decision. Push and risk being rolled. Hold back and risk the same outcome. For people who’ve been through military or first responder pipelines, that moment is familiar. You’re not deciding whether something hurts. You’re deciding whether it ends you.

The ankle injury nearly did.

There’s a temptation, when telling military stories, to frame persistence as inevitability. Like once someone decides, the outcome is guaranteed if they just want it badly enough. That’s not how this part of the story reads. At multiple points, his continuation depended on variables he didn’t fully control. Injury. Medical intervention. Timing. Tolerance.

He wasn’t untouched by the process. He was altered by it while it was happening.

Despite all of that, he graduated the SEAL pipeline in 2012. That line gets written quickly in bios. In reality, it carries the weight of everything that almost prevented it. The ankle. The nose. The procedures. The risk of being rolled. The quiet decision to keep showing up even when the odds weren’t clean.

After graduation, assignment mattered. He wanted the West Coast. Not for beaches or reputation, but because his brothers were there. Family proximity isn’t often highlighted in elite unit narratives, but it shapes how people hold together when the pace increases. It was a grounding factor, not a distraction.

Operational service followed. He completed an Afghanistan deployment, but Matty wasn’t with him. Injuries in pre-BUD/S prevented him from being able to class up. So, when Marc came back from his first deployment, Matty was out. Marc had 3 years left, but he decided making music with Matty was more important. The plan was made that they’d get back to it when his contract was up.

Alongside operational experience, he also spent time as an instructor. That shift carries its own meaning inside the culture. Instructor duty isn’t just about competence. It’s about trust. It means the organization believes you can hold standards for others, not just meet them yourself.

What’s notable is that even while serving, Marc wasn’t avoiding the future. He maintained a planned exit mindset. That doesn’t mean counting days. It means recognizing that no role lasts forever and that identity can’t be postponed until separation papers are signed. For many veterans and first responders, this is the part that gets ignored until it becomes urgent. He didn’t wait.

Throughout this period, music didn’t disappear. It stayed in the background, he took his guitar on deployment and in his down time would write songs. That continuity matters later.

There’s also acknowledgment of less-discussed aspects of the environment. He referenced negative cultural elements. Not in a dramatic way. Just as part of the reality. No institution is pure. No team is immune. That kind of honesty tends to resonate with people who’ve lived inside similar systems.

By the time his service was ending, the foundation had shifted. He’d tested himself against a standard he chose. He’d absorbed physical and mental cost. He’d gained credibility that didn’t need explaining. And he’d already accepted a truth that becomes unavoidable later for everyone who leaves. Once the structure goes away, it’s on you.

That realization didn’t arrive suddenly. It was built during the years when the stakes were still clear.

WATCH

He Enlisted with his Brother. He Deployed Alone and He Wanted to Make Music

As a “twighlight tour” as he was approaching his transition, he spent time as an instructor. His older brother was part of the instructor staff and got him over to Land Warfare. Within the culture, that assignment carries meaning. It’s not given to someone who just survived. It’s given to someone trusted to uphold standards for others. Teaching in that environment forces reflection whether you want it or not. You’re no longer just executing. You’re explaining. Correcting. Watching others struggle with the same gates you passed through earlier, sometimes under different conditions.

It’s also often where people start to take inventory.

Marc doesn’t frame this period as heroic or miserable. He acknowledges that there were negative cultural elements. That matters. People who’ve served know that every unit has friction points. Unspoken rules. Personalities that clash. Systems that work well and others that don’t. He doesn’t dwell there, but he doesn’t deny it either. That restraint signals credibility.

More importantly, he didn’t treat his military identity as permanent by default. While still serving, he maintained a planned exit mindset. That phrase deserves attention. It doesn’t mean disengagement. It means awareness. Knowing that no role, no matter how meaningful, is guaranteed to carry you through the rest of your life.

For many veterans and first responders, this realization arrives late. Sometimes too late. The work is consuming. The identity is strong. The structure is comforting. Marc didn’t wait until separation to ask himself who he was outside of it.

That doesn’t mean the decision to leave was easy or rushed. During this period, he met the woman who would become his wife. They married while he was still close to the work. Marriage adds a different layer of accountability. It’s no longer just about what you can tolerate. It’s about what you’re building alongside someone else.

Eventually, his service ended. At the time of the conversation, he’d been out for nine years. That span matters. It creates distance. Enough time to see patterns. Enough time to strip away the reflexive language people sometimes use right after separation.

When he talks about leaving, he doesn’t frame it as freedom. He frames it as responsibility. “It’s on you when you get out of the military.” That line lands with weight because it’s not offered as advice. It’s stated as a fact.

Once the uniform comes off, the clarity doesn’t increase. The structure disappears. The rules are less obvious. The feedback is inconsistent. The safety net feels thinner even if it’s technically still there. This is where a lot of people stall. Marc didn’t romanticize this phase. He acknowledged it plainly.

What’s notable is what he didn’t do. He didn’t try to replicate the military in civilian life. He didn’t chase a role just because it sounded adjacent. He didn’t erase the parts of himself that existed before service.

Music was still there.

He described it simply. He couldn’t shut it down. It grew. That’s an important distinction. Music wasn’t a fallback. It wasn’t a consolation prize for leaving something bigger. It was a parallel identity that had been present long before the military and survived alongside it.

After leaving service, he began recording an album. That step carries risk most people underestimate. Recording isn’t just creative. It’s exposure. It’s choosing a different kind of evaluation. No pipeline. No fixed standard. No guaranteed outcome.

Marc and Matty, along with the other members of the band, Electric Med, continued playing music while he was active. Playing and recording when they could. It’s work. Long days. Uncertain returns. Constant adjustment. In a different way, it mirrors some of the same tolerances he’d built earlier. Fatigue. Adaptability. Showing up even when conditions aren’t ideal.

Marc’s story through this phase isn’t about replacing one identity with another. It’s about carrying the parts that mattered, discarding what no longer fit, and accepting that responsibility doesn’t end when structure does. It just changes form.

Military Transiton and Making Music with his Brother: Electric Mud

Transition doesn’t arrive all at once. It stretches out.

By the time Marc left the military, he wasn’t searching for an identity in the wreckage of the old one. He’d already accepted something many people avoid until they’re forced to face it. Once the structure is gone, it’s on you. No one assigns meaning. No one enforces standards. No one checks whether you’re still moving.

He didn’t try to recreate the military in civilian life. That’s a trap many fall into. Same intensity, different uniform. Same pace, different logo. Marc didn’t do that. He didn’t chase something adjacent just to stay close to the identity. Instead, he leaned into something that had always been there.

Music didn’t show up after the uniform came off. It never left.

He talked about it plainly. He couldn’t shut it down. It grew. That language is important. It wasn’t a decision driven by dissatisfaction with the military. It wasn’t rebellion. It was continuity. Music had been present before service, quiet during it, and persistent afterward.

After leaving, he began recording an album. That’s not a small step. Recording means committing to a version of yourself and letting it be evaluated without buffers. There’s no selection pipeline. No peer group to normalize the discomfort. You put the work out and see what holds.

By 2019, that commitment turned into movement. He and his band completed a 30-day tour. That detail matters because it signals seriousness. Touring at that scale isn’t a hobby. It’s long days, late nights, uncertain returns, and constant adjustment. It’s also a different kind of accountability. If you don’t show up, the work doesn’t happen.

Then the momentum stopped.

The next year, COVID hit. Plans froze. Progress stalled. That disruption is familiar to a lot of veterans and first responders who transitioned around that time. You finally get traction in a new direction, and the external world shuts it down. Marc didn’t dramatize it. He stated it as fact. The next year, COVID hit.

After that, the work resumed, but not in the same way. Summer shows. Adjusted pace. Modified expectations. Life didn’t revert to what it was before. It rarely does.

At the same time, life kept adding weight. He became a father. That changes the equation. Touring is harder when you’re responsible for more than yourself. Time away carries a different cost. Decisions have second and third order effects now.

Today, he lives in El Cajon. His music is available on Spotify. The work continues, just not at the expense of everything else. That balance doesn’t come from perfect planning. It comes from accepting tradeoffs instead of resenting them.

When he talks about advice for others, it’s understated. He doesn’t offer formulas. He doesn’t promise outcomes. He says pick something. Movement matters. Waiting doesn’t

create clarity. Action does.

That perspective makes sense when you look at the whole arc. He tested himself before committing. He accepted cost without dramatizing it. He planned his exit before he needed it. And after leaving, he didn’t pretend freedom meant ease. It meant responsibility without structure.

One of the quietest moments he shared captures this phase better than any advice could. He took his daughter to see Paul McCartney. That image doesn’t need explanation. Music that mattered to him long before the military now shared with someone who’ll only know that version of him. Not the pipeline. Not the deployments. Not the decisions that came with risk.

Just presence.

Marc’s story doesn’t end with resolution. It ends with continuity. Identity carried forward, not abandoned. Responsibility accepted, not resented. Direction chosen, even when the path wasn’t clear.

That’s often the part that resonates most with veterans and first responders. Not the moments of intensity, but the long stretches afterward where no one’s watching and the choices still matter.

Closing

Marc Hansen’s story isn’t defined by a single chapter. It’s shaped by how each phase informed the next without erasing what came before. Music didn’t disappear when the military entered his life. The military didn’t erase creativity. Transition didn’t mean starting over. It meant carrying forward what still mattered.

He tested himself before claiming the identity. He absorbed cost without inflating it. He planned for life after service while still fully inside the work. And when the structure fell away, he accepted the responsibility that came with it.

For veterans and first responders, that arc feels familiar. The hardest part isn’t the training or the calls. It’s the quiet years afterward when no one tells you who to be or what standard to meet. Marc didn’t wait for clarity to arrive. He moved, adjusted, and kept going.

That’s not a formula. It’s a posture.

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