Ham by Sam Harris Page A

rehearsal or see the impending doom that had begun when the driver had failed to pick me up at the airport. All of this was new to me—the fame, the demand—all of which I lapped up hungrily. But I didn’t yet understand the power or need for self-preservation that comes with the fame and demand. At the bottom of it all, I didn’t want to disappoint the people who were there to see me. Or even just there. An audience in a theater expecting a show.
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”
    Jim Welcome’s eyes popped in desperation, knowing he was on the verge of a deal.
    â€œI will go on— for fifteen minutes. I’ll make up a story about how my music was lost by the airline and I will sing three songs, a cappella, and make the best of it.”
    Jim Welcome wept. He hugged me with his three-hundred-pound clammy, colorless body and told me I was a true star.
    The capacity crowd had been standing in subzero Siberian winds for much too long. Amputations of frostbitten digits would surely be necessary. I ran backstage as the house was opened and I heard the wretched mob charge into the warm theater. I suddenly remembered that I was still in my rehearsal clothes and had not brought show clothes from the hotel. I rushed back to my room and returned with only minutes to spare.
    Once in my dressing room, I breathed deeply and planned my strategy. Under normal circumstances I would have had time to get nervous, worrying about my voice cracking, the dry radiator heat, Aretha’s impression of me, the band, the sound, the lighting . . . just failing. But there was no time to do anything but dress for battle and plunge into the front lines.
    I could hear the audience on the dressing room monitor. It wasn’t the sound of excitement and anticipation. It was the sound of anger. Grumbling, justifiably hostile people whom I would momentarily face to sing a few songs with no band—a meager payoff for the rabble. A riot could break out and I would be the first casualty.
    Jim Welcome knocked on my dressing room door. It was time. I walked down the hall silently as if on my way to the gallows. We arrived at the wings and I was handed a microphone. A voice came over the loudspeaker. There was no welcome, no apology, no transition, no explanation or attempt to unite the crowd or create focus. Just: “Ladies and gentlemen—Sam Harris.”
    A little voice popped into my head that said, What the hell do you think you’re doing? Who the hell do you think you are?   . . . And then I remembered. I marched onto the stage to the accompaniment of nothing, smiled broadly, and yelled, “Pretty pissed off, huh?!”
    The mostly African-American crowd answered with a laugh. “I know I would be!” I continued. “Are you numb? Can you feel your feet?” They cheered and howled and stomped on the floor like they were at a national election convention. We were bonded.
    â€œDo you see a band here? Do you even see a piano player? My charts got lost on the plane and I got no music! They made you wait outside in the freezing cold and for what? A little white guy with no music! Don’t you worry, the Queen of Soul will be out here soon with a band and backup singers and everything.”
    â€œWe love you, Sam!” came a voice from the mezzanine.
    â€œSing ‘Over the Rainbow’!”
    The crowd reignited in the request.
    â€œYou want me to sing?” I hollered. “With no music? You got it! I will do anything you want. I’ll sing, dance, tell jokes, make cookies. Hot chocolate. Hot toddies. I am your servant.”
    I sat on the edge of the stage with my legs crossed, Indian style.
    I sang “God Bless the Child.”
    I sang “I Am Changing.”
    I sang “Over the Rainbow.”
    With my voice the only sound, the great hall became an intimate room. Just me and a spotlight and them. It was pin-drop