Story written by: Greenberry Taylor
You never forget the first time you have Herpangina.
I was 19, sitting on a firetruck, and my mom was next to me when I received the diagnosis. Horror spread across both our faces, obviously for different reasons.
“This is rare for someone your age,” the doctor said, looking puzzled. “It’s typically only seen in toddlers and infants.”
Dr. Gallee, my pediatrician, explained that this virus was more commonly known as hand, foot, and mouth disease. My legs dangled off the firetruck-themed exam table as he began his line of questioning to get to the bottom of this mystery.
“Have you been anywhere recently where you were around unclean surfaces and touched your face?”
My brain percolated. “Not to my recollection,” I responded.
“Have you recently been in an environment that wasn't clean and you weren’t wearing shoes?”
I didn’t even have to think. The answer was yes.
The previous weekend I had been at the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival with my buddy, Floyd. Absolutely STACKED lineup. I’m talkin’ Dr. John, Galactic, Dave Matthews Band, and the freaking METERS! And of course some lesser-known artists like Etta James, Bob Dylan, and Herbie Hancock.
I had kicked off my Chacos so that I could feel the earth beneath my feet while I was cutting a rug to the tunes rumbling my senses. I had to apologize to the people next to me for the massive hole I had created with killer moves.
From afar, I thanked Galactic for clearing my sinuses with the level of funk that came off of their set.
I didn’t bother putting my Chacos on while trekking from stage-to-stage across the festival grounds to catch different sets. I’d simply pick them up by the heel straps and carry them in my left hand.
My right hand was reserved for my trusty cardboard box filled with the world's largest Foster's beer cans. They looked identical to the barrels Donkey Kong throws at Mario when he’s trying to climb those ladders.
Inevitably, at every set, my beer box would get knocked over and the cans would spill onto whatever surface I was standing on. It could be concrete, grass, gravel, or maybe all three.
I'd pick up the strong-man sized barrels, knock the dirt off the top with the same hand I'd been carrying my shoes with all day, give the mouth of the can a ceremonial tap, crack it open, dent the side, and take a swig.
The festival is held on the Fair Grounds Race Course, where horses race when the festival isn’t going on. So, if it rains and mud starts to form, you can catch a nice whiff of horse shit every now and again. Sometimes I could see it on the concrete, gravel, or grass.
You know, all the surfaces I was standing on without shoes.
When the show was over, we exited onto a road that was LIVE.
It wasn’t your typical Shakedown. An atmosphere that resembles the Lot, but much more ancient. It was something only the city of New Orleans could create. It cannot be replicated.
The fragrance of Nag Champa and gyros was replaced by crawfish pie and fried boudin balls. There were bowls of jambalaya for $5 sold from someone’s front porch instead of a garlic grilled cheese under a white pop-up tent. Brass bands along the street playing music for nothing but tips replaced the acoustic circle and bongos.
It was magical. I was not wearing shoes.
Back on the firetruck, Dr. Gallee was still waiting for my answer. I was in denial.
“I survived Bonnaroo without shoes,” I thought to myself. “Through the mud. Through Shakedown. Through the…porta-potties.”
I prepared to respond, but winced in pain. The blisters that had formed in my throat felt like shards of glass. Whenever I swallowed it was like a red-hot fire poker was pushing against the shards of glass.
“Not that I can remember,” I squeaked.
He shook his head and wrote me a prescription for some gel-based pills that I had to pop and let the substance run down my throat to soothe the blisters. There was no treatment. I had to make it through the pain.
There was no one to blame but myself. Not Jazz Fest. Not the incredible city of New Orleans. Just me. Me and my dumb hands and feet.
I came out on the other side, though. Proud to say I haven't been Down with Disease as a result of not wearing shoes since.
These days, when I’m perusing the Lot, I sometimes see the soleless. I don't want them to end up like I did. My hubris of going barefoot through countless Lots finally earned me a case of Herpangina.
I never say anything, though. Well, except for one time. And even then, it was subtle. A whispered warning, if you will.
I was at a Billy Strings show in Savannah earlier this year. It was Night 2 when I witnessed a person standing barefoot on the concrete. We were both in front of a rack of t-shirts that had Houser drawn in cartoon form to resemble one of the Peanuts. Underneath the character was text reading: We Miss you Mikey.
We never exchanged a word. We didn't need to. Those shirts were rad.
As he turned to walk away, I whispered something softly in the caring tone of a lifelong friend.
“Wear shoes in the Lot, buddy.”
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About the Author:
Greenberry Taylor
Bio: I'm a Bama kid. My first concert was Shania Twain, but the first one I was truly stoked about was Dave Matthews Band at HiFi Buys Amphitheatre in Atlanta in 2002. From there, things got wonderfully out of hand. Panic, Ben Harper, Rage Against the Machine. The road goes on forever, man.
Since then, I've chased stories from newspaper offices in Mobile to ski slopes in Vail, Colorado, and spent time working shows like Bonnaroo, ACL, Electric Forest, and Coachella. When I was slinging Q in Daphne, I fell hard for the hypnotic grooves of R.L. Burnside, Junior Kimbrough, and Hill Country blues.
I snagged a PhD and molded a few minds along the way, but always told people I learned the most from the Lots, and long conversations with strangers who didn't stay strangers for long.
These days, you'll probably find me in the Lot at BMFS, or spinnin' RTJ.
Reach out: greenberry@responsiblewook.com
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