Adam Arcuragi strikes me as the modern equivalent to an 18th-century itinerate preacher. When those floorboards creak under his climb to the stage, women swoon and swearing men grow tame. The way he writhes around a microphone with an imploring Bayou passion is at once soothing and exhilarating. His rhythms rhyme and roll, and he deftly uses volume and tempo to allure, reeling you in, bringing you close before the crescendo where he leaves an everlasting mark. And there, where the scarlet double AA is burned onto your eardrum, is where he’ll stay. An aural memory that finds you in the finer of moments, a call to recollect the places you have been and the things that you have seen. Simply put, Adam Arcuragi harkens; he is a harkener. And what more is a Preacherman supposed to do?