Ham by Sam Harris

“Ain’t No Way,” “Think,” “Natural Woman,” “Spanish Harlem,” “Respect”—it went on and on—electrifying and intimidating. And long. I knew it had to end at some point but it kept going for what I guessed was ten minutes. Enough time for Aretha to smoke two more cigarettes and finish off a bag of donuts.
    Finally, a series of Vegasy horn riffs built and built, changing keys for what surely would lead to the grandest entrance of all time. “Ladies and gentlemen—the Queen of Soul!” boomed over the system. Aretha crushed her cigarette with a twisted stomp, tossed her hat into the air behind her, and let her fur fall to the floor as she walked from the wings, grabbing the mic from a stagehand who’d been standing the entire time, holding it until she was ready.
    Aretha arrived center stage and looked out to the empty theater and said, “I feel. You feel. The important thing is we feel together,” as her opening line. The band launched into the iconic introduction to “Respect” but she waved for them to stop. “I want to do that again.”
    â€œFrom your entrance?” Barnum asked.
    â€œFrom the top,” she answered.
    They played the overture again. All ten minutes.
    â€œI feel. You feel. The important thing is we feel together . . . Wait a minute. I need to do that one more time.”
    I shifted in my seat, appearing composed and unconcerned, all the while thinking, You’re kidding, right? Okay, you’re Aretha Franklin, the greatest voice in the world, but seriously??! It was nearly 7:00, the doors were supposed to open in half an hour, and she’d not rehearsed a single song. More important, neither had I. She ran the overture two more times, always followed by “I feel. You feel. The important thing is we feel together.”
    I was feeling a lot.
    Finally, Aretha moved on to “Respect” and in an instant, I was once again transported. I couldn’t help but revere her. She was singing to an audience of one. Me. And in a little while, I would sing to her.
    Her voice was coarse and smoke-worn. She gave nothing. There was no sense of performance, but it was just a sound check, and I knew she was saving it for the real thing. On her darkest day, Aretha would still be better than anyone else. After the one song, she announced she’d had enough and told Barnum the band could rehearse the rest without her. Jim Welcome hoisted her fur onto her shoulders, and they disappeared behind a veil of smoke before you could say “Rescue Me.”
    For the next forty-five minutes the band played through the Franklin songbook with a backup singer doing Aretha’s part. I looked at my watch every seven seconds. Jim Welcome returned and announced from the back of the house that it was nearly 8:30 and he had to open the doors. People had been dangerously waiting in the freezing cold for hours.
    I ran to him and asked about my songs. My rehearsal. My orchestrations. He said there was no time and the band would have to read my charts cold. I was young and vulnerable but not stupid. “There is no way I am going onstage without rehearsing new charts and no one who knows my music,” I bargained. “They don’t even know tempos!”
    Suddenly Jim Welcome began to panic, nervously shaking. In an instant, sweat poured off him as if his skin were a thousand-prick sprinkler hose turned on at full pressure. What little color he possessed drained from his shiny head and dripping face, like some sort of morphing, melanin-free superhero trick.
    â€œYou have to go on!” he begged. “More than half the tickets sold are for you!”
    â€œYeah, right,” I countered.
    â€œIt’s true. It’s why we chose you. You’re fresh, man. The people want to see you !”
    I didn’t know what to believe. I had no one to step in. No one to stand up for me or insist on