‘The Colonel’ leads Hundred band with humor

The Colonel is alone.

Amid 23 piccolos, 27 clarinets, 26 alto saxophones, 10 tenor saxophones, 48 trumpets, 19 horns, 30 trombones, nine baritones, 22 sousaphones, 25 percussionists and 22 Redsteppers, the Colonel is alone.

It is 4:15 p.m. on a Monday, and David “Colonel” Woodley, director of the Marching Hundred, is observing band practice on the parking lot at the north entrance of Assembly Hall.

The Colonel sits on top of the hill overlooking the players. The 262 musicians are divided up by instrument into sectionals. He watches for half an hour before assembling them into one large group.

Before he does, the music professor takes a sip from a cobalt plastic water bottle. It rained earlier in the day, and the humidity lingers in the air like perfume.

He sits in a fabric folding chair wearing red basketball shorts, an IU T-shirt and a crimson baseball cap. His white socks peer out of his worn black New Balance shoes. He looks like he belongs inside Assembly Hall, not on the hill overlooking its parking lot. 

As sectionals end, the Colonel stands and attaches a headset. The now-assembled students turn to face him, still on top of the hill.

Unlike the connotations that come with his nickname, he doesn’t bark orders. For 50 minutes, the band stands in a semi-circle facing him. He uses humor and sarcasm to keep the band’s attention.

He asks the band to do a new formation.

“We’re going to do the dead Michael Jackson spread. And then my hair will catch on fire.”

He quiets the group, focusing on only one section.

“Brass, relax. Contemplate life for a little bit.”

He tries to loosen them up.

“Woodwinds, let’s get you in the island spirit.”

He didn’t get his nickname until he came to IU in fall 1993. But the story begins at the University of Louisville, where he became an honorary colonel after performing in a parade at the Kentucky Derby. When someone at IU noticed the “colonel” sign in his office, the nickname stuck.

“A lot of people used to think that Bob Knight was the General, and I couldn’t be higher ranking than him so I was just a Colonel,” he said. “It’s unrelated, but a good story.”

After graduating from the University of Iowa in 1985 with a master’s degree, he immediately joined the staff at the University of Louisville. Since then he’s spent his career directing their college bands.

“I’ve never graduated,” he said.

He said it only took him a year to fully support the Hoosiers instead of his Big Ten alma mater, Iowa.

“I fell in love with this place,” he said. “I don’t even remember or care about Iowa that much anymore.”

Some old members of the Hundred started a Facebook group dedicated to his jokes, known as Colonelisms.

They range from the almost-obscene to the parental. But they all have a twinge of Colonel humor.

One comment said, “Remember: bowl trips can last a long time. So don’t go crazy the first freakin’ night, because then Tuesday rolls around and you’ve already shot your wad.”

And another, “If you kids didn’t smoke so much pot and play all those video games, maybe you could remember the drill we learned yesterday.”

The Colonel’s love for humor is only outmatched by his passion for the band. His anger is rare, but when he senses the band isn’t focused, he lets them know.

“It’s scary when he’s mad,” drum major Tonya Mitchell said. “I just stand silently.”

Fellow drum major Annie Herchen had blue hair when she first joined the Hundred. The Colonel came up to her and asked her why. Scared, she said it was just something she always wanted to do. The Colonel said OK and walked away.

“He was cool with it,” Herchen said.

At the bottom of the hill, the Colonel looks small.

He is anything but.

His voice – booming through the loudspeakers – carries through the entire lot. They stand in the parking lot and look up at their half comedian/half enforcer. With his sunglasses on, the band can’t see his eyes.

The sun is beating down on his neck. But the Colonel still stands.