Frank EB opens the series inside The Moka Pot in Manchester.
On Thursday night the stage wasn’t really a stage.
Just a corner of The Moka Pot in Manchester cleared out enough to hold a microphone stand and a guitar cable, the kind of space where music happens because someone decided it should. Outside, the city was moving the way it usually does on a cold clear night. Cars easing through Elm Street traffic, people drifting between restaurants and bars without much hurry. Inside the coffee shop everything slowed down. The smell of fresh coffee hit the room before the door even had time to close.
The Moka Pot doesn’t try to act like a concert venue and that might be the whole point. Dim lighting hangs over couches and small tables. Yellow and green walls carry shelves full of books and bits of local artwork. It feels closer to a friend’s living room than a performance hall, which might be exactly why the music works there.
By the time the night got going maybe thirty people had found their way into the room. A good portion of them were musicians themselves, many scheduled to play the series in the coming weeks. That kind of audience changes the energy. Conversations quiet down when someone starts tuning a guitar, a sign of mutual artist respect. People listen differently when they know they’ll be standing in the same spot soon.
Frank EB stepped into the space without much ceremony, already picking through the opening notes of “Remember” by Jimi Hendrix while introducing himself. It felt less like the start of a performance and more like watching someone settle into a language they’ve spoken for years. It moved like an old blues tune, some quiet guitar creeping in from the background as he wrapped up a sentence.
He followed it with “The Wind Cries Mary,” bending notes just enough to remind the room that blues guitar isn’t only about volume but about patience as well. By the time he rolled through “Hey Joe” and slid directly into “Purple Haze,” it was clear the guitar was doing as much storytelling as his voice.
Frank carries himself like someone who genuinely enjoys the act of playing. Between songs he kept up an easy conversation with the crowd, letting the room breathe before drifting back into the next progression.
Then the night shifted gears.
Instead of staying entirely in blues territory, Frank stepped into the catalog of Kanye West, delivering stripped-down versions of “Family Business” and “Jesus Walks.” In a room built for quiet listening, the songs revealed a different structure than their studio versions, more melody, more vulnerability, less spectacle. It worked. I’m sure it was no easy feat attempting to adapt those songs into his style but you wouldn’t have been able to tell. Each song took a unique form and solidified my already certain opinion that Mr. EB was the real deal.
At one point he stumbled over a line while covering one of the Kanye songs. In a larger venue that kind of moment can derail a set. Here it did quite the opposite.
Someone laughed, someone else cheered him on, and the room lifted him right back into the song. It was a reminder that small intimate listening rooms run on something bigger than perfect performances, they run on trust between the stage and the audience.
When he turned to his own songs the room was broken in and everybody started to lean in a little closer. One of them, “Young Man’s Blues,” carried a bit of personal history. Frank mentioned it was the first song he ever wrote, back when he was sixteen. Hearing it now felt less like a throwback and more like a checkpoint along a much longer road.
One of the most memorable moments of the night for me came when he blended Hendrix’s “Axis: Bold as Love” with Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry.” The combination shouldn’t have worked as naturally as it did, but the guitar stitched the two songs together like they had always belonged in the same conversation.
He eventually closed the evening with a bluesy rendition of Frank Sinatra’s “That’s Life.” In a coffee shop performance, that song lands differently than it would in a bar or theater. The lyrics feel closer, almost conversational, like the kind of story you’d hear from someone across the table rather than across a stage. It was the perfect way to close out the first night of Live from the Countertop.
After the set I spoke briefly with Dan, one of the owners of The Moka Pot. He was clearly energized by the turnout and the atmosphere building around the series. Events like “Live from the Countertop” aren’t trying to compete with traditional venues. They’re creating something smaller and more intentional.
Watching the room slowly empty out after the last song, it was easy to see the potential. Scenes don’t always start in clubs or theaters. Sometimes they begin in places like this, an unassuming coffee shop on the corner of Elm and Hanover Street with a microphone, and thirty people willing to sit quietly long enough for the music to matter.
The funny thing is I drove the better part of an hour to get there with nothing guaranteed except the promise of quality music and a concept that sounded interesting on paper. That’s a gamble that doesn’t always pay off. Thursday night it certainly did. The people behind Live from the Countertop and the team at The Moka Pot built a room that felt welcoming, curious, and genuinely rooted in live music. If you care about local artists having places like that to play, it’s worth making the trip. Every local scene starts the same way, just a handful of people deciding a Thursday night is worth it. If you care about music, sometimes the most important thing you can do is simply show up. I know I’ll happily be doing it again.
If the first night of this series was any indication, Manchester might have just found another listening room worth paying attention to.
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