TIME: Almanac 1993/TIME Almanac 1993.iso/time/091889/09188900.056

Text File | 1992-09-23 | 6.5 KB | 135 lines

                                                                                AMERICAN SCENE, Page 14

Tallahassee, Florida

The Funkiest Half-Time Show


For FAMU's Marching 100, every move obeys "the Law"

By Don Winbush


    In the faint light of predawn, on a freshly mowed football
field, a grueling preseason practice session is under way. A
band of panting young men and women are running laps and doing
push-ups, sit-ups and jumping jacks. A coach stands by, barking
through a bullhorn, "You need to get accustomed to perspiration,
people."

    Despite the setting and sweating, this is neither a
football drill nor Marine boot camp. It is basic training for
Florida A&M University's famed Marching 100, perhaps the world's
greatest -- and without a doubt its funkiest -- college marching
band. At FAMU, priorities that prevail at most campuses are
reversed: it is the football team that travels with the band,
not the other way around. Many marching bands seem content to
strut their stuff to the martial strains of John Philip Sousa.
The Marching 100 boogies down with the Moonwalk, the California
Worm and the Mashed Potato, to the rhythm and blues of James
Brown and the sound of Motown. In a word, the Marching 100 has
soul.

    To make the squad takes stamina. Draconian auditions are
staged at "the Patch," a former potato field in the heart of
the Tallahassee campus. Many an aspiring musical career has
been scuttled by the physical demands of trying to learn, then
hone to perfection, the band's exaggerated-action marching
style, with its accent on joint-snapping knee lifts, breakneck
cadences (as fast as six steps a second, 360 a minute) and
whirlybird twirls. "I seriously thought about quitting the first
day," says senior saxophonist Natasha Griffin, who was nearly
immobilized by aching muscles. Out at the Patch, the three most
dreaded and oft-repeated words are "Take it back," a command to
start over, to give the routine tack-sharp precision and snap.

    During the drills, it is not hard to pick out the offspring
of FAMU alumni. Forewarned by their parents, they usually report
to camp with muscles already toned and a granite can-do
expression. Not so the unwary newcomers, who stand out because
they are huffing and puffing. This year initiation day was
barely two hours old when one overweight freshman sidled up to
associate band director Julian E. White, surveying training from
midfield.

    "A problem?" White prompted.

    "I'm not prepared," the rookie muttered.

    "What's wrong?"

    "I just didn't prepare myself for this. I'm not ready. I'm
not in shape."

    White buoyed the young man's spirits with a word of
encouragement and an invitation to stick with it a while
longer. But later that day the recruit called it quits.

    The band's nickname dates to 1946, when assembling a
first-rate unit 100 strong became a passion for the college's
new musical director, William P. Foster. Today Foster, at 70,
is an icon at FAMU and in the world of marching bands. His book
Band Pageantry is a bible. He claims a long list of innovations,
among them the use of a silent count by drum majors to move the
band and the "death cadence," a stunning slow-motion marching
style with one step taken every three seconds.

    Foster has mellowed since the days of students making siren
noises when they saw him coming. Band members secretly called
him "the Law," in deference to his strict rules and dignified
manner. Now Foster, whose nickname is "Doc," has a more
avuncular approach. But he still makes unremitting demands. The
band's half-time routines are studiously crafted on a theme,
such as "A Paris Review" or "A Kaleidoscope of Soul." Its motto
is an unwieldy pledge to "highest quality of character,
achievement in academics, attainment of leadership, perfection
in musicianship, precision in marching and dedication to
service." And by the way, all music will be memorized.

    The 100 are as attentive to musicality as they are to
showstopping drills. Note by note, phrase by painstaking
phrase, whether rehearsing their signature march, In Storm and
Sunshine, or a riff from a Top 40 selection, Foster is
constantly bidding for better dynamics, "more resonance," "more
sonority," "more articulation." Band-room practice sessions are
punctuated with spiels on positive thinking and personal bearing
and decorum. Otherwise it is the usual application of
meticulousness. "There's just no easy way to do this," Foster,
associate band director White and band arranger Lindsey B.
Sargeant take turns preaching.

    For a band of such remarkable skill, the Marching 100 is
little known. It is most appreciated by fans who pack the stands
when FAMU squares off against rival teams from traditionally
black institutions like Bethune-Cookman College and Tennessee
State University. But this year France invited the band to
perform in the parade celebrating the 200th anniversary of the
French Revolution. It was the only American organization to
participate. There it was, sashaying down the Champs Elysees,
belting out a medley of James Brown tunes. After that, says
Foster, "this band will never be the same again."

    Esprit de corps, a strong sense of tradition and a
self-imposed get-it-right work ethic permeate the rank and file.
Says head drum major Julius Wilson: "We have a certain amount
of class, and it shows." Or, as a senior band member put it to
a freshman he thought was slow to get into the perfectionist
mode, "We don't put no doo-doo on the field."

    Any outfit worth its salt is champing at the mouthpiece to
outfunk the 100, which makes for some high-stakes Saturday-
afternoon "battle of the bands" showdowns. At FAMU students
choreograph the dance routines, and the temptation to create a
sensation by slipping in a few blatant bumps and grinds is
strong. But that runs up against a classic Foster homily: "The
concept of creating simply for the purpose of eliciting crowd
approval is foreign to me." Placated for the time being, the
students respond with a customary chorus of "Hubba, Doc! Hubba,
Doc!"

    When you've got it, it's hard not to flaunt it, though band
members are encouraged to let their performances do the
bragging and to avoid being drawn into debates about who's the
greatest. "We never get into that kind of discussion," is the
official party line. True to tradition, somebody came up with
a precise way to reconcile the mandate to show modesty and the
urge to swagger. It's in a T-shirt message that reads WHO'S
BETTER THAN FAMU'S 100? DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.