This past weekend a friend and I attended the Big Apple Classic. Hampton and Howard’s mens basketball teams squared off in Madison Square Garden, giving New Yorkers a taste of Black college festivities including a college fair, Greek step show and battle of the bands. I’m personally not a fan of either Hampton or Howard but having spent many a Saturday growing up glued to BET (remember when they showed Black college football games?) or huddled in the cold bleachers watching games live, I was jammin’ right along with Hampton’s pep band. And with every new song they played, my face lit up with recognition.
Hampton made Weezy’s confession bout never having ran from nan’nigga and that today was not the day to start sound like a passionate love song, using the brass horns to pick up on the tune’s melodic undertones. It really did! And dammit if they didn’t pull out the classic…
Heeeeey……heyyy……heyyyy……you talking out the sida ya neck… (ok, that sounded betta live but my real band heads feel me!)
My friend looked over at me and asked how I was able to pick up which songs the band was playing so fast. I gave her that girl-don’t-you-know-who-I-am look and said “I am THE band song decipherologist!”
I had to break it down for her. It’s a well-known fact that Black college bands choose their musical selections from a few specific categories:
1) your local dj’s top 8 at 8, what you hear on the radio 20 times a day, both ballads and hip hop joints alike; or
2) a three song melody comprised of hits from The Elements (Earth Wind & Fire for the uninitiated) or Michael Jackson or Stevie Wonder
Now you will occasionally get the adventurous band that strays from these two categories but 9 times outta 10, this is what they go with. And then I asked her, have you never been to a Black college football game, caught the Bayou Classic on Thanksgiving Saturday, the homecoming parade, something?!?
And her response…That just wasn't my experience!
Note: said friend once confessed to me that she used to be afraid of Black people and large gatherings of Black people. Despite being African-American and growing up in a major northeastern city she somehow got it into her head that she should avoid places where lots of black people congregated, you know that extra hood shopping mall across town, high school basketball games, rap concerts, etc. because of the inherent dangers in such gatherings.
Damn Gina!
I looked at her with sorrowful eyes and wished at that moment that the De Lorean would pull up and take us both back to the fall of 1998 and my most memorable Black college band moment. I can remember it like it was yesterday (cue the music).
We had traveled all night on that charter bus from our little high school in our little city with hearts full of excitement and anticipation. We were on our way to the mecca of Black college bandum…Florida A & M University’s Homecoming.
In my teenage mind, we had made it to the big time. For this was where all things band sprung. Where our drum majors came for band camp every summer, where we got our drum cadences from (duckmouth, papa was a rolling stone, P-Sec, you know!), every formation, every drill, every arrangement was certified gold from FAMU. Even our band leader had gotten his chops on the trumpet section there and came back to the hometown to groom us up in the way that we should go.
We all hoped that one day, we too would be lucky enough to get a band scholarship upon graduation and join the ranks of the Marching 100, riding off into the sunset with our oh-so-sexy boyfriend who just happened to be on the trombone line or if we were especially lucky, a drum major! A girl could dream.
We marched our little hearts out up and down the country streets of Tallahassee and tried to act all grown walking through the yard, imagining ourselves as one of those girls, wearing one of those jackets, having the times of our lives, free from parents and restrictions enjoying homecoming weekend with our gaggle of girlfriends.
And when we finally made it to the stadium, spent from the cheers of the parade onlookers, we couldn’t contain ourselves. Black people as far as the eye could see were taking up every seat in the house, waving orange and green pom poms. Yelling, cheering, and laughing with delight. Just having the time of their lives, eagerly anticipating the halftime show.
And then the signal…
beeeeeeeeeeeeeep beep, beep beep beep beep.
The figures appeared. Tall and proud, the Presidential Nine, busting those 90’s slowly, precisely without dropping a knee. Swinging their batons in hand, tall white hats, sparkling clean uniforms with orange and green tassels swaying with every movement, shiny black boots, and that deadly rattler snaring at you from across their chests.
They death marched, clicking off time with short whistle beeps, reaching the middle of the field, and in a flash of caps, they spin, leap and fall into elaborate splits.
Let the show begin…
Man, somewhere in my friend’s fear of Black folks she missed all this…
Hampton made Weezy’s confession bout never having ran from nan’nigga and that today was not the day to start sound like a passionate love song, using the brass horns to pick up on the tune’s melodic undertones. It really did! And dammit if they didn’t pull out the classic…
Heeeeey……heyyy……heyyyy……you talking out the sida ya neck… (ok, that sounded betta live but my real band heads feel me!)
My friend looked over at me and asked how I was able to pick up which songs the band was playing so fast. I gave her that girl-don’t-you-know-who-I-am look and said “I am THE band song decipherologist!”
I had to break it down for her. It’s a well-known fact that Black college bands choose their musical selections from a few specific categories:
1) your local dj’s top 8 at 8, what you hear on the radio 20 times a day, both ballads and hip hop joints alike; or
2) a three song melody comprised of hits from The Elements (Earth Wind & Fire for the uninitiated) or Michael Jackson or Stevie Wonder
Now you will occasionally get the adventurous band that strays from these two categories but 9 times outta 10, this is what they go with. And then I asked her, have you never been to a Black college football game, caught the Bayou Classic on Thanksgiving Saturday, the homecoming parade, something?!?
And her response…That just wasn't my experience!
Note: said friend once confessed to me that she used to be afraid of Black people and large gatherings of Black people. Despite being African-American and growing up in a major northeastern city she somehow got it into her head that she should avoid places where lots of black people congregated, you know that extra hood shopping mall across town, high school basketball games, rap concerts, etc. because of the inherent dangers in such gatherings.
Damn Gina!
I looked at her with sorrowful eyes and wished at that moment that the De Lorean would pull up and take us both back to the fall of 1998 and my most memorable Black college band moment. I can remember it like it was yesterday (cue the music).
We had traveled all night on that charter bus from our little high school in our little city with hearts full of excitement and anticipation. We were on our way to the mecca of Black college bandum…Florida A & M University’s Homecoming.
In my teenage mind, we had made it to the big time. For this was where all things band sprung. Where our drum majors came for band camp every summer, where we got our drum cadences from (duckmouth, papa was a rolling stone, P-Sec, you know!), every formation, every drill, every arrangement was certified gold from FAMU. Even our band leader had gotten his chops on the trumpet section there and came back to the hometown to groom us up in the way that we should go.
We all hoped that one day, we too would be lucky enough to get a band scholarship upon graduation and join the ranks of the Marching 100, riding off into the sunset with our oh-so-sexy boyfriend who just happened to be on the trombone line or if we were especially lucky, a drum major! A girl could dream.
We marched our little hearts out up and down the country streets of Tallahassee and tried to act all grown walking through the yard, imagining ourselves as one of those girls, wearing one of those jackets, having the times of our lives, free from parents and restrictions enjoying homecoming weekend with our gaggle of girlfriends.
And when we finally made it to the stadium, spent from the cheers of the parade onlookers, we couldn’t contain ourselves. Black people as far as the eye could see were taking up every seat in the house, waving orange and green pom poms. Yelling, cheering, and laughing with delight. Just having the time of their lives, eagerly anticipating the halftime show.
And then the signal…
beeeeeeeeeeeeeep beep, beep beep beep beep.
The figures appeared. Tall and proud, the Presidential Nine, busting those 90’s slowly, precisely without dropping a knee. Swinging their batons in hand, tall white hats, sparkling clean uniforms with orange and green tassels swaying with every movement, shiny black boots, and that deadly rattler snaring at you from across their chests.
They death marched, clicking off time with short whistle beeps, reaching the middle of the field, and in a flash of caps, they spin, leap and fall into elaborate splits.
Let the show begin…
Man, somewhere in my friend’s fear of Black folks she missed all this…
In loving memory of my cuzo, a proud Rattler!
