January 22, 1968 - A cloudy Monday in New Orleans. I forced myself to walk home from the record store, slowly, anticipating. That didn’t last. I didn’t run, but I sort of skipped, danced, a weird two-step up the sidewalk, a right turn, a left turn, almost a waltz as I approached my house. I nearly tripped on the porch steps - no, I did trip. It wasn’t hot but it was warm and too humid for January. I didn’t hear cicadas but I imagined I could. I didn’t take off my coat as I tripped into the parlor, a big, nearly empty room facing the street. I held my breath as I slipped the record out of its sleeve, vinyl reflecting light from the street as I laid it on the turntable. I clicked it on. The tone arm didn’t hurry but eventually, finally, the needle hit the record.

He introduced himself. “They call me Doctor John, known as the Night Tripper.”

“I am very pleased to meet you, Doctor,” I said as I glided to the dusty window seat. I leaned on one knee, looking one way up the street, then down the other. I saw no one I knew, and no one I wanted to share this with. I twirled once, slowly, and again, slower, and waltzed to the fireplace. I took a joint out of the jewelry box on the mantel, as the ballerina popped up to party.

Two hits later and I was on the chaise, watching the ceiling fan spin. The first side of the album held me tight and I closed my eyes. “Dance Fambeaux” faded away and I finally made it up and across the room to turn the record over. That cloudy afternoon was heaven.

Or at least it would have been, if it had actually happened. I was just over three years old when this record came out, and I was way up North in New York, having a proper winter and wondering why my parents wouldn’t stop talking about someone getting a new brother or sister. Presumably they meant me and my sister, who was still relatively new herself. Chances are my parents were listening to Magical Mystery Tour, which meant my sister and I were as well. We were fine with that.

But Dr. John released his first album on January 22, 1968 and I really wish I’d been there. In any record store, really, but in New Orleans? I can only imagine. I do imagine it, every time I listen to Gris-Gris. I imagine a big, creepy, nearly empty Victorian house, a chaise and a record player. I imagine being alone, and I imagine waltzing with a stranger. I imagine being there with my boyfriend. I imagine us getting high and lying on the floor of a big dusty room, watching the ceiling fan spin, listening to to Gris-Gris and arguing over who had to get up and turn the record over. Wondering what kroker kroker kubiat means and which one of us would be the first to admit that goddamn crow is really freaking me out, man.

Listen to Gris-Gris now, because you can’t listen to it then. Be fully present where you are, hear the traffic outside your window, or the snow falling, or your kids fighting. Be here and be then. But listen.