NUMBALUMS -- The 1949 Rose Bowl, By Glenn Opie (WCAS50)

ULTIMATE MORTIFICATION ? 
By Glenn Opie (WCAS50), Drum major, first NU Rose Bowl Band 1949
February 2009

As I recall, “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court”  is about a young man who suddenly found himself in a different time, in a different world, confronting unimaginable cultural shock. Maybe I should title this anecdote “A Kansas Bumpkin in Pasadena.” 

The 1949 Tournament of Roses Parade:  Stupendous!  To be there is like being immersed simultaneously in the Kentucky Derby, Super Bowl, World Series, the Indy 500, and the Olympic Games. I was absolutely giddy, like anticipating a date with Betty Grable – every college boy’s dream (in 1949). 

Empathize with a 22-year-old boy, transported suddenly from the mellow venue of a bazillion acres of waving Kansas wheat into the nucleus of a hydrogen bomb fusion, i.e., a Rose Bowl football game and the Tournament of Roses Parade. I was about to fly a B-29 (even though I had never flown anything). Indeed, I was caught in a vortex of terror, adulterated with ecstasy. I just can’t describe how I felt.  I simply did not know how I was going to handle this, and the way the day started didn’t help.  

The Northwestern Band had the great good fortune of traveling from Evanston in Railroad Pullmans (sleeping cars)—five of them, each crammed with double sleeping berths. Director of Bands Glenn Cliffe Bainum had upper berth No. 1, NW Car 1. I was assigned lower berth No. 10, NW Car 5.  This was too good to be true. I was five cars removed from Mr. Bainum. I felt very secure. 

But dawn came early.  I didn’t want it that way because I had participated in a moment or two of frivolity New Year’s Eve, along with at least a million Northwestern students welcoming in the 1949 New Year.  I wasn’t exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, when one of my band colleagues shook me awake with enough intensity to uncouple my spine, shouting, “My God, Opie, wake up, Mr. Bainum is in this car; he is mad; very mad. And he’s calling for you.” I am definitely not at my best at 5 a.m., standing in a pitch-dark Pullman car aisle in my underwear, about to confront a very angry ex-Army major and Supreme Commander of the Northwestern Band. But there was no way to escape. As he bounded toward me, I felt like a crippled zebra cornered by a starved cheetah. 

“Opie!” he bellowed. I tried to appear suave and cool, but I’m sure he heard my knees knocking. I could only manage a barely audible “Yes, sir.” 

“Opie, I want you to promise something.” I had a faint ray of hope. It implied that I might have a future. I might live long enough to be able to keep some kind of a promise. Anything!  Anything at all! If there was any chance of my survival, I was ready to promise anything.

Rusty’s voice sounded quite strained, as though his aorta was about to implode. “Do you think you can teach your G-D-drunken fraternity brothers the difference between a drum major and the band director?” 

“Just name it, Mr. Bainum – just tell me what I must do.” 

“Glenn, two or three of your drunken fraternity brothers got me out of bed about 4 a.m. One of them had phoned the rail yard screaming there was an emergency message asking to speak with the drum major, and I was awakened! Do you know what particularly upset me?!” 

All I could come up with was, “Sir, that is outrageous; that sort of conduct is inexcusable.”  

“Well, Opie, there are two reasons I was upset:  One is that the guys who got me were stupid; they didn’t know the difference between a musician, a conductor, a director and a wet-behind-the-ears sophomore drum major! And the second is that at least three of your brothers are also too stupid to know what time of the night it was, and – all of them had obviously been drinking – too much.” 

I was just on the point of assuring him that when we got back to Evanston I would contact a close friend of mine in South Chicago, who was in the shoe business, and personally see to it that all three miscreants were outfitted with concrete shoes and dumped in Lake Michigan. 

Bainum continued:  “I couldn’t get them to shut up, and worse yet, they had lousy singing voices. They were bound on describing the details of their New Year’s Eve. I have never heard “Auld Lang Syne” sung in so many different keys. Opie, is your girlfriend named Becky? Terrible voice … she just kept butting in.” 

“Mr. Bainum, the girl I’m dating right now is Jennifer. She would never take part in such conduct. Besides, she likes Mozart.” (It was the quickest thing that popped into my head to say.)  “I am…” I didn’t get a chance to finish.   

Bainum, fuming, stomped out of the Pullman car, waving his arms and banging his fists on anything he could hit, saying, “Opie, from now on, I’m adding something else to your duties.  You are to personally see to it I am not dragged from my bed in the middle of the night, understand?” He was gone. 

I felt that a great weight had just been lifted off me. I had escaped. I was going to live after all. At least he was gone – out of the car. But, he had overreacted. After all, it was just New Year’s Eve, and all he had to contend with was a little nocturnal, friendly, nonmusical babble. 


Yes, I was relieved. I would drum major today and be with the Northwestern Band after all, and I would live this day to the fullest, this New Year’s Day.

But I continued to feel a little sorry for myself. Here we are at the dawn of the creation of the universe, and some band director gets bent out of shape at a little youthful and playful enthusiasm. Later, some of the seniors in the band whined to me that I seemed to be getting away with a lot of stuff no one else could, and that there was a suspicion that Mr. Bainum sort of liked me. Wow! What a rumor! 

Well, a couple of hours later, the band had its breakfast in the Los Angeles railroad yards.  Then I was on to the fantastic and spectacular adventure, the Tournament of Roses Parade and the 1949 Rose Bowl pregame show and halftime appearance. We were bused to the parade starting line-up area. 

Any vocabulary that I might have had at that time fell far short of communicating the kaleidoscope of color, sound, the flowers, the floats, the chaos, horses, VIPs, a million beautiful girls (all obviously international models – maybe even magazine centerfolds). 

All kinds of pictures were taken. I remembered I’d been photographed by the Chicago Daily News, which showed me shaving in the washroom of a Pullman car, wearing my drum major shekel. This really salved my ego. I fiercely hoped the photo would be carried in my hometown newspaper, because I was sure no one there would believe I was old enough to shave. (I was a high school runt.) 

Then I saw them—bunched together on towers and arches:  huge clusters of television cameras. Until that point it had never dawned on me that this Rose epic was being televised nationally. But I wasn’t sure I would be on TV in my hometown, or even back in Evanston. 

As we marched along the parade route, I heard a few shouts: “Smile, you’re on TV!” So I began telling myself I would surely leave Pasadena a nationally celebrated TV icon. Then I was jolted back to reality. I sensed Mr. Bainum flanking the band as we marched – right behind me. 

“Opie, whistle ’em in,” he shouted, meaning, of course, cue the band for the drum roll-off and music. 

As we proceeded down California Boulevard, at times I wanted to jitterbug, somersault, do handsprings, and run through the band – and maybe ride some of the horses. Some girl yelled from the sidelines, “How about a kiss, drum major?” Someone else hollered, “Didn’t I see you last night bringing in the New Year?” Bainum was still right behind me. I fervently hoped he hadn’t heard this. I continued to exercise supreme discipline. Of course, I didn’t respond to either one of these questions. I was determined that the parade would go on – and after all, best not press my luck. 

But I did catch a glimpse of Bainum out of the corner of my eye. He was smiling. That was always a good sign to me. In fact, he seemed to be in another world, too. 

So I continued on deep in my Walter Middy fantasy.  I know exactly how King Arthur or Napoleon must have felt, charging dragons or whole armies. 

Now I often did some baton twirling, but was a bit intimidated in the Rose Parade. And we were moving closer and closer to the dozens of TV cameras. I was nervous and under pressure. I just didn’t want to drop one of my high baton tosses on national television. So I pranced a little higher, but the more I twirled with the high prance, the louder the crowd became. I was in hopeless emotional intoxication. By this time there were definitely extraterrestrial creatures orbiting my head, and thousands of exotic phantoms ogling me. Then came visions of my hometown folks staring at all of this. My mind was starting to implode. 

Then it happened: 20 yards or so, marching straight toward the TV cameras, I heard the P.A. roar: “And here we have the outstanding Northwestern University Band representing the Big Ten!” Crowd noises drowned out my name (if it was announced). At the same time, I was having the indescribable thrill of the TV cameras filming me head-on. Then suddenly, I was gripped by the horrific sensation that certain parts of my uniform were not appropriately zipped. No person being led to the guillotine could ever have been more terrified. Here I was:  representing the band of the most distinguished university in the galaxy, only to exhibit myself in a way that to me could only mean the end of the world. Yet an even more horrifying moment. What would Mr. Bainum think? What would he do?  I knew I had done thousands of stupid things, but he had always forgiven me. This, however, could never be forgiven. 

The World was about to be vaporized, unless somehow I could distract everyone from any close-up TV viewing.

Clinging to that thread of hope, I pranced higher, and moved into furious baton twirling and high tosses (perhaps no one would notice the unmentionable). I fantasized maybe I could even fool Mr. Bainum. Maybe he would never know. 

Yet I kept returning to the world of reality. I simply couldn’t shake the thought that I was exhibiting myself in a way that would bring ultimate disgrace, indeed, mortification, not just on me, but to the band and the university. A horrifying thought kept returning: What would Mr. Bainum think;  what would he do?  I was stricken with remorse, facing up to, confronting and revisiting the thousands of dumb things I had done as a member of the Northwestern Band (but I’d always tried to do what was right). Yet, nothing like this. And Mr. Bainum had always forgiven me, but now, after all of this compassionate treatment of me, I had just committed the unpardonable sin! It was the agonizing end of everything. I deserved anything he might do! Maybe being burned at the stake, hanged …

While I was thus consumed by the darkest thoughts, yet cavorting in wider and wider cycloids, I almost collided with Mr. Bainum. He looked at me – I thought I saw just a trace of a smile. How could this be? Perhaps he, too, was in a world of his own. Yet in my heart, I felt otherwise. There would most certainly be a death sentence. I would face a firing squad (if I was lucky). But I was determined to go out like a man. Even so, I made peace with myself. This Rose Bowl, its parade, would be the fantastic last ride in my life. This most exquisite of experiences was over, and realizing this, I felt a warm fulfillment. A strange calm enveloped me as the band “fell out” and proceeded to its buses. Maybe my sentences would be carried out immediately in some hidden space, and I would never hear the laughter and derision. 

With the faint hope I still might be able to hide somewhere in all the bedlam, I caught sight of Mr. Bainum. He was almost running toward me. I braced for the inevitable. I was just sure he would dismember me on the spot. I could no longer avoid eye contact with him. Then he grabbed me (but not by the throat). To my stupefied amazement (there is just nothing in my vocabulary to describe this incomprehensible moment): He gave me two or three hugs (almost siphoned the air out of me), then grabbed my hand with both his hands, shaking me with “violent enthusiasm.” I absolutely could not believe what was happening. “That was a great show you put on out there, drum major. Great show, Opie!” (I couldn’t think fast enough to say:  “Shucks, Sir, ‘twarn’t nothing – just doing my job.”) 

The cell door clanged open. The iron mask was removed.  The guillotine was gone. I had been pardoned and was free!  Free! Some of the band even said nice things to me. The only words I could muster at the time were an insipid “Thanks, guys. You were super. You made it all happen.” 

But the Rose Bowl pregame and halftime had yet to happen. The NU Band took command of the entire stadium, jam-packed with thousands of spectators. The crowd was stunned by what it witnessed. The applause during our performances was deafening. Especially when the band formed a huge, 138-member stick figure of a football player kicking a football. I think everyone in the Wildcat Band just wanted to stand there and do nothing but assimilate the adoration for a decade or so. But then it was time to leave. 

As the band milled around the parked buses that were to take us back to the railroad yards, we noticed another bus nearby. Its band members were very slow in boarding because standing at its front was ventriloquist Edgar Bergen signing autographs. And, believe it or not, as I was getting on the NU bus, I was even asked to autograph a few Rose Bowl programs, as was Mr. Bainum who was standing close to me, beaming. He winked at me: “Opie, it’s been a great day after all.” I was so happy, so thrilled, I thought I would explode. 


I knew it was national consensus that Mr. Bainum was the guru and the icon of the marching band world, but to receive the adoration of the funky West Coast was just astonishing:   

“The moment the Northwestern Band, 140 strong, entered the stadium, one knew that its contest with the California Band would have but one outcome. The Northwestern Band looks all over a winner, from its deepest-throated tuba right down to its squeakingest piccolo, and from the start it was just a question as to how large the score would be.” 
--San Francisco Examiner 

“Northwestern’s Band got out a good 50-0 at the Half.  It more than doubled that score with a display of fancy marching and tooting during the intermission. 

Northwestern came away with honors over California, on the field of combat, in the meeting of the bands. … The Northwestern Band was sharp and snappy, drilled like the ‘Parade of the Wooden Soldiers’ in ‘Clauve Souris.’ The California Band was drab, colorless and without imagination. It was like an old Model-T Ford alongside a new Mercury.”  --Los Angeles Mirror 

“Now it’s time for the bands to come on the field. The only real show put on is by the Northwestern Band, and it steals the show.” --Daily Calumet 

“Even the staunchest UCLA rooter would have to admit that nothing like the Northwestern Wildcat Band was seen or heard at (West Coast football games this year).”  --Daily Bruin 

There was much more extravagant media praise.  What ignited the spectators, I believe, was that the Northwestern Band did much of its show in fast cadence (210 steps per minute). Few had ever seen this style, certainly not the West Coast band scene, in 1949. 

Mr. Bainum loved these comments and couldn’t give enough extravagant praise to all of us. 

Now I have heard stories about the legendary Glenn Bainum before I became a Northwestern student. In the marching band and symphonic band world, he was indeed an accepted guru, a consensus icon of marching bands, but also recognized as a master of the concert hall. He selected fine literature, and his professional opinions were sought by many composers and arrangers. On one occasion, LeRoy Anderson brought a manuscript to have Mr. Bainum’s concert band “try out”: “Typewriter.” The piece was enthusiastically received by Mr. Bainum, and went on to rank with other great Anderson selections, such as “Sleigh Ride.” 

I came to know Mr. Bainum as a clarinetist in his symphonic band. He was just absolutely the finest. Bainum was the complete artist. In preparing us for a concert, we would sight-read perhaps a hundred or so pieces, before he would, the week before the concert, select the program we would play. 

Rusty was much imitated but never equaled.  During my three years at NU I came to know him well enough to sense that he probably never had in his own mind regarded himself as anything special. He was the quintessential artist in his field, yet a truly loving and modest great man. 

I am convinced that the 1949 Rose Bowl experience truly touched his heart. I believe I saw a tear or two in his eyes during that adventure. Rusty’s professional credentials and record were unequaled, and were respected by everyone. He was the consummate artist. He owned the world of field pageantry.
 
A few of us had the great privilege of knowing him as a second father. Despite his occasional brusqueness, he loved his band and Northwestern. 

One of the many examples of his intense loyalty and regard for his band is demonstrated in the guest status of the Northwestern Band at the NU Football Victory Banquet, held to celebrate the 20-14 Rose Bowl victory over the Golden Bears.  

Mr. Bainum was asked by the Athletic Director of Northwestern if the band would provide some music at the banquet. He told them that the band would be delighted and honored to play some dinner music, it being understood of course, that the band would also be guests at the banquet and would be seated near the team, be served the same menu, and honored also. His conditions were readily accepted. The event was held at the Palmer House in Chicago, and Bainum, a VIP of course, sat at the same table with NU’s head football coach, Bob Hope and Vera Vague.


Epilogue: After we had survived the greatest blizzard (’49) of the century, in Casper, Wyo., and I was back at school, I finally confided to some of my fraternity brothers the terrifying zipper scenario. In great charity they assured me that no one was aware of the agonizing crisis I was living at the time, and the thoughts I was having.  That was real nice to hear, and I was very comforted until someone added, “Opie, the crowd wouldn’t have discovered anything to be excited about anyway.” 





Posted April 8, 2009.