Third Man, Only Son (Four days in Detroit with Ben Rogers)

April 10, 2024 — My 21-year-old son Ben and I flew from Tampa to Detroit, on a trip loosely orbiting Jack White’s show at the Masonic Temple and the unspoken desire to mark time. What started as a shared love for music became something deeper. An unfolding adventure. A chance to see the world — and each other — a little differently.

Kev and Ben – Motown Museum

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DAY ONE

Detroit greeted us the way Detroit does — cold, gray, and soaked in a kind of melancholy that makes you lean in closer to whatever warmth you can find. We checked into the hotel and walked through the wet streets to a place called Lumen. Shared Old Fashioneds. Ben ordered the Bolognese. I went with lamb chops. We talked music, laughed a lot. Let the cold settle around us while the cocktails did their job.

It didn’t take long for Detroit to start talking back. Locals offering unsolicited lists of places to check out, the friendly bartender suggesting next spots, more patrons chiming in. Every interaction was human, casual, unpolished in the best way.

We followed one suggestion to Kamper’s rooftop for another drink. Braced the bitter cold back to the hotel. I conked out for an hour. It’s 11:30 PM now. “Hey Ben, should we check out that place, Tommy’s?”

It was a block from the hotel. Steam rising from below the streets. A classic corner dive bar. Coupla neon signs in the window. “Roll in here slow,” I reminded Ben as we pulled on the door. Wood floor, low ceiling, kitchen clatter in the back. A few heads turned. Ben moved with the right kind of ease — respectful, observant. I watched him take it all in. He’s got good instincts. No need to perform. Just be present. We ordered beers and patty melts and chatted with the bartender. The city was cracking open a little more.

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DAY TWO

We started the day at a spot called Dime Store, but the real feast came later — at Third Man Records.

Jack White’s empire isn’t a monument to ego. It’s an ode to obsession. Craft. Color. Chaos. Control. There’s something deeply satisfying about seeing an artist build an entire universe around their work — down to the yellow and black walls, the recording booths that double as photo booths, the vinyl presses humming like they’ve got stories to tell.

Ben was wide-eyed but calm. He’s a musician first. Always has been. And as much as he loves the dream, he’s already seen through some of the fog. He knows it doesn’t always go how you planned. There are many roads in. Even more ways out.

But what Jack built showed us both something important: it can look like whatever you want. There is no template. No correct order of steps. You can make the damn thing up, brick by brick, pedal by pedal.

We wandered Detroit the rest of the day, letting conversations pull us into shops, restaurants, bars. It felt like the city kept handing us the next page in the story just as we finished the last.

Everywhere we went, Ben carried himself with quiet authority. When something didn’t feel right, he noticed. When a moment invited joy, he answered. I got to see my son moving through the world like a man — cautious when necessary, open when it counted.

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DAY THREE

We split up for a bit that morning. I found myself at Madcap Coffee, bleary-eyed and un-caffeinated. Sat next to a blonde twenty-something who politely read me the Wi-Fi password as I fumbled with the login. Small talk. Croissant flakes all over my shirt.

Ben showed up on a scooter. We found a brunch spot, wandered a bit more. Then, later that afternoon, we stepped into Hitsville U.S.A.

I don’t have the words yet, really. To be in that building — to feel the floorboards beneath Studio A — where Motown happened. Not just music, but moments. Stevie Wonder, Diana Ross, Marvin Gaye, The Temptations… That rhythm soaked into the wood. That sound still echoing, even in silence.

Ben watched, listened. Soaked it in. Music is in him like blood. But so is awareness. This wasn’t just a tour. It was a lineage. A signal that you don’t have to sell your soul to make soul music. You can build something with roots and color and imperfections — and it can last. Detroit’s musical roots run deep. Berry, Marshall, Bob, Jack… they spread their sound around the world, but always bring it back home. Now I know why. 

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THE SHOW

That night, we hustled over to Lafayette Coney Island for chili dogs before the concert. Skipped the line at the Masonic Temple thanks to a VIP perk. Walked in feeling like we belonged.

The opener was forgettable. Jack wasn’t.

He launched onto the stage like a man possessed. No preamble. Just plugged in and let it rip. When the tech glitched, he didn’t flinch. Pedalboard fried? Fine. Same guitar, straight into the amp.

It wasn’t flawless. It was ferocious. Alive. Human.

Ben stood beside me, absorbing it all. The show. The chaos. The craftsmanship. The possibility.

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FINAL NIGHT

One last stop at Tommy’s.

Now it felt like our bar. Familiar faces, full tables, jukebox popping. We found a corner, tucked in beside a couple we instantly vibed with. Laughed. Shared songs. Belted out “Leave the Door Open” by Silk Sonic.

That one had been on my list.

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EPILOGUE

There was no big moment. No life-altering revelation. Just four days of moving through the world with my only son — eating, laughing, listening, learning. Watching him see things. Watching him choose how to see them.

Ben wants to learn copywriting. He’s still full tilt on the music, but he’s thinking beyond it now. I’m going to train him. Show him what I’ve learned. Not so he can quit his dream — but so he can shape it with more tools, more clarity, more power.

Whatever comes next, these days are already sealed in amber. A perfect adventure in the heart of America. A real-time reminder that what we build doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s version of success.

It just has to be pure.

Smokin’. Ben Rogers and Jack White