Adam Arcuragi and The Lupine Choral Society, “Presidents’ Song”

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?

J. Tillman, “Firstborn”

She realized would never touch the ivory on her mother’s piano again. It, as with all she had known, was fracturing to other places. It had left its place beside the hearth. Far from her reach, Foreign to her sight. Washed clean free of provenance to dwell in a home with no mind for such things.  No longer a gift from her father, who now laid snugly in the ground. No longer there to gather the family ’round.  Another memory gone.

Now just another piece of furniture on which to place a drink.