Barbara Tries to Schmooze with the Big Dogs

St. Petersburg Cajun Festival

First up was Cajun heartthrob Gino Delofose, who I swear caught my eye from stage and lifted a brow as if to say, "Yeah girl, I know you got the zydeco soul. Bet you play rubboard, too." After his set, I schmoozed on over and my friends captured the moment in this photo. Don't we look tight?

After bribing a roadie with a beer, I was granted a short hearing with the King himself. Turns out his hideaway was a van with tinted windows. When the roadie knocked and slid open the back, Buckwheat spun around, hoping I was the platter of etouffe he ordered. He was nice enough, though, pressing the flesh before sliding the door shut - Wham! Wait, did I tell you I play rubboard?? Sorry about the nose print on your back window...Meanwhile, Debbie and Trayce DID manage to schmooze some members of the kickin' band Swampfyre and even a member or two of Buckwheat's band - one guy was fetching them a steady supply of Heinekens from the "Talent" cooler that even the roadies couldn't touch. "Come on, amigas, let's go home," I said (after a Heinekin), tired from schmoozing and concerned that we were in danger of crossing the line from professional networking to groupie-ism; SOMEBODY has to defend that border.

Unknown Tongues at the Low Country Cajun Festival in Charleston

Unknown Tongues DID play the Lowcountry Cajun Festival in Charleson with Chubby Carrier, Your Father of Fun. We opened for Chubby AND played the deadly slot just after his first set, before he reclaimed the stage to rock the crowd home. That's right, Lousiana boy, get the crowd all worked up with your funk and zydeco, then let those skinny white faux-Cajuns from Carolina follow. Long story short, it all went fine - except, of course, my attempts at schmoozing.

No one else had trouble connecting with the stars. Above, you can see that Tom and Todd WERE stars, having to sign autographs from an adoring fan base. In fact, Tom had just signed the cap to that water bottle. And there's Bryan, looking pretty darn smug with his best friend Chubby Carrier (what's Tom doing trying to get in the picture - maybe he has issues too...). And Tongue son Aren is enjoying quality time with Chubby's bassplayer Corey, who even emailed him words of encouragement a couple of days later. To the right there's me, asked to play on stage with Chubby - no, wait, that's my friend Margie, looking downright Miss Americanish. Margie, who had every Louisiana native ask her to dance, got picked out of the crowd and bestowed with Earl's rubboard. I'm glad for her, really.

And then there's Rhonda, drummer Tom's wife, who takes it to a whole new level. Earl not only ran into the audience to pick her out of a crowd of hundreds, dodging me at every turn, but gave her a lesson in rubboarding to boot. I couldn't have been happier for her. BUT WHAT ABOUT MEEEEEE? Then I figured it out - I'm in a band, therefore they assume I'm above all that. So after the show I saunter up to my colleague Earl, wearing my rubboard, and go to shake his hand when he holds his rubboard spoon out to me. "What, you wanna compare licks?" I ask. "Try and get this out of my hand," he answered. "You can't, can you? Who got control of that spoon? Me! What are them flippy little things I saw YOU trying to play?" That's right - He SAW ME PLAY. He didn't patronize me with kind words, but gave me rubboard-player-to- rubboard-player-advice, hold the candy-coating. Elated, I sidled up to him for this photo. But gazing at it later, I noticed his scrunched up expression. And look at his right hand, turned outward so as to not make contact with me. Could he tell I had just come out of the port-a-potty? Or was I just trying too hard? But then, as we drove out of Charleston, past the house that says "Jesus is the only fire escape", I remembered Chubby's refrain, repeated over and over in the last song: Peace, Love, and Zydeco. I learned my lesson - you schmooze, you lose. Just hold on tight to your spoons and groove!