Adam Harris Thompson’s heart is the wide base of old guitar, balmy with its sound, its rhythm and echoing plink. His heart leads, all up the wood-lined aisle of his neck, to his mouth: soaked in a little cigar smoke and the thick, rich lingering of good beer, Adam sings. What is low and riding in him, even if someone else has sung it before, Adam sings. Again and again, he sings it out himself. And people want to listen.