Blessed or saddled (depending on one's view) with the name of a popular beer, standup comedian Sam Adams of Denver made his second stage appearance in less than a year the other night at Harrison's historic Lyric Theater.
Known for his prize-winning comedy and casual delivery devoid of profanity and vulgarity, the soft-spoken black 59-year-old spent two hours entertaining a full house that belly-laughed and applauded too many times to count.
If it's true that laughter is the best medicine, he administered his healing brand intravenously for two solid hours.
Besides being a nationally recognized comedian, Adams blew in like an appreciated breath of fresh air to the predominately white Ozarks town that is disparaged in media stories as a supposedly racist community, based largely on one Boone County resident and unfortunate events that targeted Harrison's black citizens in 1905.
My hometown has repeatedly been unfairly tagged as the supposed home of the Ku Klux Klan, even though that radical organization's Grand Poobah lives 15 miles away in the mountain hamlet of Zinc, which has no post office. Consequently, the Klan man's mail must flow through Harrison's post office.
The community's background is relevant to Adams' performance because, in addition to his litany of hilarious material, Adams made it a point on stage to repeatedly dispel the media-perpetuated negative image of the town.
In fact, he said more than once how he has come to "love" the town and its people during two sold-out visits to the Lyric's stage. Several in the crowd responded: "We love you too, Sam."
A Denver sportswriter in another life and still a close friend with former Razorback All-American safety Steve Atwater, who afterwards played for the Denver Broncos, Adams continually proved himself a quick-witted master of improvisation and perfectly timed onstage deliveries.
Amid a string of personal anecdotes that held the audience's attention, Adams told of his first trip to Harrison last December. It was a journey he courageously undertook despite warnings from friends that (because of those perpetuated misimpressions) he'd best steer clear of the town.
He said he'd arrived on a frigid night, parked about 40 yards from the theater on the town square, and walked across the street shivering while constantly looking over his shoulders for possible trouble. His wide eyes and bodily gestures in explaining that night drew raucous laughter. One wag began jokingly voicing familiar banjo music from the movie Deliverance.
While onstage during that appearance, he said he was constantly watching the theater's shaded nooks and crannies.
The laughter continued as Adams said that before his arrival, his suspicions were aroused that only a single seat had been sold in the balcony. "I wondered, why do you suppose just one person reserved a spot in the balcony?" he asked with expressive eyes.
Yet instead of encountering the racism he feared, Adams said he received a warm reception and an appreciative audience of about 200 that waited to visit with him after the show ended.
This year, he shared humorous vignettes about his family relations, senior dating sites, his life experiences and observations of human nature. In one story, he told of an older relative once telling him he had no problem with same-sex marriage because "me and my wife have been having the same sex for years."
Adams openly praised the community, saying more than once that in performances across the nation he regularly refers to his unexpected "positive experiences while performing in Harrison, Ark."
Before leaving Colorado last week for his return to the Ozarks, Adams said he told close friend Atwater he was coming to Arkansas for another one-night show. "When Steve asked me where to, I told him I was heading back to Harrison. Atwater's response was, 'You're going to do what?!'
"Since I got here, Steve's been texting every 15 minutes to check on me," Adams added with an ear-to-ear grin and a wink. "I've kept him freaked out by not texting back." The audience again roared its approval.
Adams said humans make a mistake when they label each other by skin color as being black or white. "No one is truly black or white, but various shades between. Look at your skin, is it truly white? Mine isn't really black. I even went to a paint store to match mine exactly." The audience listened in silent anticipation. "Turns out," he announced proudly after a second's hesitation, "I'm Chocolate Indulgence." More laughter.
He also said if he could be considered a Sam Adams ale in human terms, most others in the evening's crowd would be "Sam Adams Light." The predominantly white crowd, with some minority residents, erupted favorably yet again.
Clad in a tan sports coat, dark jeans and canvas shoes, the comedian reminded me in both style and mannerisms of a younger, much-beloved Bill Cosby before Cosby's self-destructive tumble from universal respect.
As Adams concluded his show, Harrison Mayor Jerry Jackson and Regional Chamber President and CEO Bob Largent took the stage to present him with a customized Harrison license plate proclaiming it as America's best small town.
Adams' flair for improv surfaced again. His expressive eyes grew wider as he looked to the crowd in mock fear. "Oh, license plates, eh?" he said with a false gulp, a reference to many states who use prisoners to make their license plates. Peals of laughter arose for the umpteenth time followed by a deafening standing ovation.
Afterwards, he perched on the edge of the stage to visit with audience members who pressed forward to take photographs with him, much as he had during his first visit. He promised he'd be back next summer to this Ozarks town he unexpectedly has grown to love. I'm certain his 2020 performance will also be sold out. After all, there was nothing about this man not to admire and enjoy.
Mike Masterson is a longtime Arkansas journalist, was editor of three Arkansas dailies and headed the master's journalism program at Ohio State University. Email him at mmasterson@arkansasonline.com.
Web only on 09/14/2019