Just Take My Heart
Our First Night Back
I felt like I was going on a first date. Used to throwing on a pair of leggings and an oversized shirt in my pandemic hole, my muscle memory suffered slow uptake in the task of picking out proper clothing for a night out.
And what an important night it was.
The Arrival
Pre-pickup, my hands sweat. My heart pounded. I felt the palpable middle ground between fear and excitement, and I couldn’t tell which was which. Did the pandemic scar me with unexpected social anxiety?
We parked in the auto district of Green Bay across the street from the storied brick tavern, Phat Headz II. Upon entering the establishment, confident in my fully vaxxed immune system, I inhaled and felt the eras of smoke, booze and debauchery circling in my sinuses.
The bar itself was centered in the room, outlined by glowing gambling machines and narrow beer ledges along the walls and surrounded by bellied-up regulars and patrons with hairdos way beyond cheugy (as the kids say).
The stage stood in the front windows overlooking the sidewalk, where smokers lingered and bonded in their designated post. There was barely any walking room between the stage and the bar. That oval, aging buzz-me-up station took up all prime would-be dance floor space.
Angie, Candace and I grabbed the only three bar stools in that tight stage-to-bar aisle (a.k.a., front-row seats).
We just entered heaven.
Where Live Music Lives
This intimate space with hand-painted murals of music icons adorning the walls is the type of place where rock music is born. It’s not glitzy, glamorous or pyromanian. It’s raw, dark and real.
It’s where aspiring, local musicians play covers and bravely slip in originals to a mumbling early-bird crowd. It’s a quick stop on a cramped van tour across the country (must-see Dave Grohl doc). It’s a stage where former rock stars escape the limelight to reinvent themselves—or just feel at home with their fans.
Opener Inferred impressed us with classic rocks and class vocals.
So we sat, whirling on our stools back and forth from the stage to the bar where the bartender reached over the defunct popcorn and nacho machines to hand us our plastic-cupped cocktails. We watched two openers, sometimes applauding an impressive high note and nodding encouragingly at the charismatic guitarist, sometimes cringing at a failed attempt to mimic a famous song.
Either way, it didn’t matter to us. Live music—in person—was back. It was our first night out and, at risk of sounding overdramatic, my heart was bursting.
What Drew Us Out
Then, passing through a curtained panel-turned-”backstage,” Eric Martin, frontman of Mr. Big, took the stage with Trixter’s PJ Farley on bass and Kip Winger’s Ben Hans on drums. The COVID-19-rescheduled acoustic show kicked off with “Superfantastic.”
My eyes glued to Martin, the sarcastic, self-deprecating vocalist, who didn’t hesitate to openly mock those carrying on their own isolated conversation, clearly missing out. I had a permanent smile on my face, relishing every note, every solo, and honestly on the brink of tearing up.
Did I say “front row seats” or what? We could almost rest our feet on the stage from our barstools.
I first experienced Martin and Mr. Big in 1991 when I was 12 and the band’s second album, Lean Into It, helped them reach deserved stardom. I owned the single cassette of “To Be With You,” a mainstay at my junior high dances.
Martin called it their “campfire” song when Angie and I saw him solo at a back-corner casino bar several years ago. You just can’t help but sing along, and it brings me immediately back to those formative years, when you break away from what your parents played and discover what’s yours.
That album marks its 30th anniversary this year. Martin is 60 and has not lost that sassy smirk or that powerful, gritty, versatile voice. The man is a vocal phenomenon, in our opinion, rivaling any lead man of his era and even now.
PJ Farley on bass stepped out to the mic later in the show to debut some solo stuff.
Accompanying him on stage, the slight-framed Farley, whom Martin jokingly called “a little boy,” swapped his bass for the mic to debut his own music, while Ben Hans magically turned any item into a rhythm instrument and expertly handled a pesky cymbal stand that almost rattled off the stage.
Ben Hans keeps the rhythm while his very own fan club cheered him on.
A Starving Groupie Comeback
For live music fans, the pandemic stole a bit of our souls and left us grieving for the camaraderie only found among concert-goers. Live streams, yeah, those helped, but they certainly weren’t long-term replacements.
(From left) Eric Martin, Kari, PJ Farley, Angie and Candace.
That night our heartbeats revived. It explains the pre-show nerves, the overwhelming urge to cry when hearing “Just Take My Heart” and seeing Eric Martin obstruction-free singing directly in front of you.
To top off this glorious night, we met the trio after the show. We talked, got their autographs, took an instantly treasured and shared picture and, in a surprising move, held hands in a celebratory huddle. We selfishly revelled in the gaze of their undivided attention.
We walked out, way past our bedtimes, ecstatic, almost floating. It was an emotional first night back. The pandemic took our hearts. Eric Martin gave them back.
