Jannus Landing, or Jannus Live as it is known today, has been the backdrop for many great musical experiences throughout my lifetime.
The venue has hosted legends like The Cure, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and the Wu-Tang Clan. Most recently, it was the setting for a date night with my new beau, tucked into a crowd and warmed by his arms as reggae music drifted across the open-air courtyard, I was convinced there was no better place to be on a chilly Florida night.
Years earlier, it was where I went to see Donna the Buffalo with my sailing crew. Sunburned and salty, I watched as our captain and his wife danced to zydeco music on New Year’s Eve Eve, a traditional showtime the band kept year after year.
There has always been something about that venue that feels almost European to me. The apartment buildings that once enclosed the space gave it the feel of a shared courtyard, intimate and alive. I remember residents stepping out onto their balconies to watch shows when I was young, peering through railings as they sat in folding chairs. It was as if the concert belonged to the whole neighborhood. Those apartments sit empty now, but the nostalgia remains.
For years, I wondered about the name. Jannus Landing is not your typical music venue title. It sounds more like a waypoint than a stageshow. So imagine my surprise when I learned it was named for the very spot where the first scheduled commercial airplane flight in the world touched down.
Right there. Where the amps now hum and crowds sway.
According to records and photographs preserved by Florida Memory, on Jan. 23, 1914, a Benoist XIV flying boat lifted off from the waters of Tampa Bay in St. Petersburg and landed roughly 20 minutes later in Tampa. The pilot was Tony Jannus, a young aviator whose name would quietly become part of history.
The flight was operated by the St. Petersburg–Tampa Airboat Line and carried a single paying passenger: Abram C. Pheil, a former mayor of St. Petersburg.
Pheil did not buy his ticket at a counter. There were no boarding passes or luggage tags. Instead, he won his seat at auction, reportedly paying $400 for the privilege. Adjusted for inflation, that was no small sum. In modern terms, he paid what some might call an arm and a leg just to take a seat in an open-cockpit aircraft with little more than goggles, nerve, and optimism between him and the water below.
It was part publicity stunt, part leap of faith.
The Benoist XIV was not luxurious. It was a wooden-framed, fabric-covered flying boat with the pilot seated behind the passenger. The engine roared. The wind whipped. And yet, that short flight across Tampa Bay proved something revolutionary: air travel could be scheduled, ticketed, and practically priced. Not for Pheil, of course, who paid dearly for the spotlight, but for the quieter passengers who waited their turn and bought a seat for five dollars.
Florida, with its flat terrain, mild winters, and eagerness to attract visitors, turned out to be the perfect proving ground.
The airline itself was short-lived, operating for only a few months. But its impact lasted far longer. That 20-minute journey helped shrink distances, reshape tourism, and signal that Florida was open for business in a bold, modern way. What had once taken hours by boat or train could now be done in the time it takes to finish a cup of coffee.
I wonder whether the rush of cool air I felt there a few months ago was the same feeling the community experienced when they gathered to witness the birthplace of commercial aviation. A little more than a century ago, standing in that exact spot and looking skyward instead of toward a stage, did they feel the same lift I do from live music and a warm embrace?
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