Happy Wednesday

A dim porcelain sign hangs unsuspectedly, flickering above a quiet alleyway. A warm glow emits from the title: "Mike's Tavern," casting its welcoming light upon the entrance; beneath, friendly words are exchanged amongst the lingering perfume of cigarettes and cigars. As folks cross the threshold, the door swings open with a resounding creak, revealing a multitude of patrons. Ears lean in close, intent on catching the weaving stories as they snake across the room. Mike's is a step into a before-time, one that never quite existed, yet rings with inexplicable familiarity. The many walks of ordinary, mundane, working persons meet at this unique location to participate in an extraordinary community, one that shares in the joys of music, friendship, and connection.

A warm glow emitting from the title: "Mike's Tavern'

The bar sits quietly across from a local microscope lab... (the corporate parking lot appropriately apprehended at the punctual turn of 5 o'clock). Sound equipment is prepped, keyboards gallantly staged, microphones positioned and tested. You would think professional stage techs were 'wizarding behind the curtains'. A drink in hand, the sound tech. perfects the ambiance, laboring over each adjustment like a mosaic tile carefully nestled into place. The product drips from the ancient speakers like honey, inviting barflies to nights full of musical shenanigans— maybe because... You can fucking hear each other. But you won't find the regular crowd at Mike's taking the opportunity to chatter for granted. The artistic space is relished and respected through the evening's performances— Mike's is a place for the listener. Within the small confines of the bar-space, the feelings of the working class, 'hobbyist' world are exposed. Its patrons and musicians alike don't pretend for it to be anything else. We are happy to drink merrily with one another and sweat our asses off.

I take a sip of my beverage and wink coyly to my friend as I shuffle the card deck, making banter without words as I wait for the ceremonial cut. I would say the diversified night dweller is welcome at Mike's. Our card game is met with enthusiasticly casual support. After several hands, I growl with dramatized frustration, once again being outwitted by an uncanny portion of luck. Onlookers pat me on the back with endearing sympathy. Amongst the True American Folk music: Indie, Punk, and Blues, Reading, PA's loving degenerates (In which I include myself most endearingly) manifest the deep call to: "Love Thy Neighbor, To Love Thyself". It's as if the unique quest unlocks upon entrance—to nurture happiness for ourselves and others. Not that a god has anything to do with the spirit of love, nor that a god shouldn't have a hand in such profound human interchanges.

The "Open Mic' is completely free form. The musicians follow an underlying trend: each set is intended to be their organically inspired artistic expression. You might find such a statement.... corny. I assure you,

Reading, PA Jazz Saxophonist Greg Wilson

dear listeners, there is no more genuine American Spirit than in the hearts of working-class musicians. Rather than the precision of Pop or Orchestral, besides even the unending edge of Avante Guarde—the singer-songwriter vibe exhibited at Mike's strikes home. Amid conversation and banter, you can feel the room freeze when a particularly colorful chord is struck or a profound lyric hangs in the air. At Mike's, the listener is expected to challenge themselves to show up for the space. It's just what you do. When you walk through that seemingly ancient door, creaking in your ear, there is a simple request: To be genuine and fair. With those two characteristics shared at heart, it's always a Happy Wednesday being human at Mike's.