“I’m at dinner with Emily and her family, what’s up?” Joe said.
I called my best friend and old roommate Joe Sweeney in an emergency. He didn’t answer. I texted him, “Call me back. It’s important.” So minutes later he finally called back.
I hastily explained the situation and he empathized, agreeing that truly was a dire situation. I could only imagine the scene of him returning to the dinner table and explaining that the emergency phone call he just made was about a Bob Seger T-shirt. But this wasn’t just any old T-shirt.
It was my custom-made Bob Seger super-fan shirt displaying my barroom rally-cry ‘Turn up the Seger’. How would anyone believe me when I said I was Seger’s biggest fan if I was just wearing some store-bought screen-printed t-shirt? You can’t make a boast like that and not have the one-of-a-kind merchandise to back it up.
It was 9:30pm on Bob Seger eve and the shirt was nowhere to be found. I turned my entire apartment upside down. Emptied all my drawers, closets, cabinets, and duffel bags and still could not find it. It was a sharp contrast from the emotions I should have been feeling this night.
When Seger initially announced he was coming to Bangor, Maine I jumped for joy for a good twenty minutes. It was fate. He’d only announced about a dozen tour dates, and Bangor was one of them. Bob had to have known I was up here. He had to have. And he would be my first visitor in the cold northeast.
I bought two tickets to the show the day they were made available to an exclusive public via-presale. I didn’t mind the fact that I had to pay an extra $14 for Bob’s new album just to get in on it, I was going to get a decent seat, hang the expense.
So when I couldn’t find my beloved t-shirt I was temporarily crushed. After a two-hour search, I put it behind me and continued on with my pre-show prep. I drove over to Wal-Mart to get a poster board to make my sign. As I asked a blue-vested employee where the school supply section was, he revealed to me a beacon of hope.
“Yeah, there’s a store that makes T-shirts I think, right next to Big Cheese Pizza, you know where that is, on Main Street?” the man said. “Yeah they do screen prints and that. Try that.”
Not bad for a last minute print.
So I got my poster board, and a bottle or two of cheap wine to calm my angst, and went to bed hoping tomorrow would be a better day.
It was. I walked into Northern Athletic Supply, a predominantly hockey and winter-sports shop, and asked for the shirt. The lone clerk working, Jason, said he could have it for me in an hour. Hallelujah.
An hour and a half later, I was Bangor bound armed with my trademark sign, trademark T-shirt, and an extra ticket for the Bob Seger show at 8:00pm.
I had bought two tickets, thinking I’d be able to find somebody to go with me. I did. Then they cancelled. I did. Then they were iffy and then declined. I did yet again. And then they got called into work.
Fantastic, I thought to myself. Really, I looked at the situation optimistically. I’d get to town around 4:00, scout some downtown bars, and bump into a black-haired beauty with big dark eyes who didn’t have a ticket, and I’d be her hero. It was a bargaining chip, I thought, no woman could pass up. Well, no woman over the age of 35. Or at the very least, I’d meet a groovin’ cat in Bangor and make his day by getting him into the show. Either way.
Everyone wanted a picture
The task turned out to be tougher than I’d expected. By recommendation of a hotel clerk and a cab driver, I started at Paddy Murphy’s in downtown Bangor. Nice place, hardwood interior with a hint of hipster chic to it. I instantly ran into some folks who were headed to the show. I went over to their booth, we chatted, they took a picture with my sign, and I sat at the bar for dinner.
I sat next to a bearded young man who was by himself and made small attempts at small talk, but he seemed disinterested. Maybe he’d just broken up with his girlfriend and didn’t want to talk, just wanted to wallow. His only redeeming quality was that he referred me to a dive-bar down the street where I was sure to meet me a Seger-going partner.
I walked into the Wave, and boy was it a dive alright. It was a basement pub, snacks around, old vets, a game room with a pool table, and most importantly a juke box. So I got a beer, waddled over to the TouchTunes and cast my dollar for Seger, hoping to get a bite on the line.
A group of 30-or-40-somethings heard the tune, saw my sign and we started talking. They were a lively bunch, all from Maine towns not to far from Bangor. They were on a pre-show bar-crawl and were just the company I was looking for. We talked rock n’ roll and nothing but, as we went from the dive to another bar down the street. I was enchanted with our sharing of rock n’ roll stories.
And Sue, Jill, Kristy, and Mike had lots of ‘em, from the shows theyd seen when most of the older acts I love were in their prime. Sue even told me about the time she went to the Burger King drive-thru to grab an order for the entire lineup of Loverboy. I told them about the hamstring I pulled at my sisters wedding, and they demanded to see the move that caused it. So I played the Human Beinz on the jukebox and happily obliged.
It was a half hour before show time and I’d all but forgot my mission to find another butt to fill my vacant seat. So I departed with the gang, got their number to meet up after the show, and made a last ditch effort downtown to find a friend.
Tha gang
The hotel bar I went to turned out to be slower than molasses, so I cut my losses and convinced myself I’d need the extra dancing room afforded by an adjacent empty seat. That’s not a joke. If you ask Michael Stolte (who was with me at the last Seger show I was at) or the unfortunate couple who sat in front of us, I can be pretty, how should I say, frantic, when Bob plays a good song. Which is pretty much all of them.
So I walked into the Cross Insurance Center with my sign and something hit me: I was the youngest person there. And it showed. I was the only guy who brought a sign, and the most enthusiastic screamer in my immediate section. I was probably a nuisance to some of the folks who chose to stay seated most of the show, but screw them. This was Seger. This was rock n’ roll. This was the way it should be.
I like to think I was a reminder, an inspiration. My shouts were springtime. My sign was a torch. It epitomized the last words Bob had sung to us on stage that night: Rock n’ Roll Never Forgets.
Rock n’ Roll Never Forgets
Jake Berent 
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