Bawdy Scottville Clown Band shocks, then awes

Herb Early wore a white wedding red carpet dresses, but he wasn’t feeling so pure.

“My wife asked me last year what I wanted to be, and I said, ‘You know what? A s****y bride.’”

And on a beautiful spring day in June, that’s just what he was �" wearing a lacy, see-through dress with a thick, white bra underneath it and artificial daisies affixed to his head. It was a magnificent display.

“How many guys have their wives buy them a dress, shorten it and cut the sleeves off,” the 64-year-old asked with pride.

Yet he didn’t look out of place among the others gathered with him on the lawn of the VFW hall in Hart �" population about 2,100 living near the state’s west coast �" preparing to march in a parade. There were men in drag, men dressed as doctors or patients and men in old-lady sweaters. There was a guy in a skimpy maid’s outfit, another in a pink tutu. And there were a whole lot of polka-dotted, baggy-trousered, face-painted clowns among them.

This spectacle was a gathering of the Scottville Clown Band, a group of men who bring a brass-and-percussion blast of marching-band music to county festivals, beer tents and parades throughout small-town Michigan during the warm months.

For more than a century, they’ve been famous on the west side of the state for their Dixieland-style sound. But it’s their looks that have made them notorious.

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“It’s 250 guys that dress up like women, clowns, farm animals, you name it,” Early said. “It’s amazing to me the number of people who’ll come up to me during the course of the year, even in the winter months, and go, ‘Oh my God, I remember you … you’re that guy that dresses like a woman.’ ”

Yet despite the attention these guys give to hemming their dresses and applying their makeup, every single member will tell you that their real focus is music. Applicants to join the band have to be sponsored by a member, and they must be experienced musicians. Almost everyone in the group played in high school or college band. And they’ve got hundreds of songs in their set list.

They take their music seriously �" even if crowds seeing them for the first time expect them to be a joke.

“Initially it’s a shock and awe,” said Nelson Buckley, 35, a trumpet player. He likes to wear an old-time sailor’s uniform. “And then it’s a lot of laughing, ‘cause we're all dressed up in crazy outfits and stuff. But all of a sudden they take a listen and go, ‘Wow, these guys are really good musicians on top of that.’ ”

It’s become like a game for some of them, scanning the faces of the crowd, spotting the first-timers who’ve never seen them before and watching their facial expressions shift when the music starts.

“The biggest thrill I get is seeing somebody seeing the band for the first time because when you see a group of men walking down the street, and some of them �" I’ll be personally honest, some of them dress in drag and dresses �" when people see them, you get the initial look of shock and I don’t want to say it, but disgust,” said Nate DeWeerd, 36, of Grand Rapids who plays trombone. His outfit is usually Hawaiian-themed.

“But then that turns into, ‘Wow, these guys are pretty good. They know what they’re doing.’ To see that initial reaction, and then that transformation, is really great to me.”

Family tradition

If wearing drag publicly in a small town turns heads now, it was unthinkable in the band’s early days.

They were founded in 1903 by a group of merchants in Scottville and initially dressed as hobos and hillbillies when they performed at local carnivals. Over time, they went from merely strange to bawdy.

“It evolved into the Scottville Drag Band,” Buckley said. “The gentlemen wore dresses and were crazy back then.”

There was a brief hiatus during World War II when there weren’t enough men left in town to field a decent band. But it was revived in 1947 as the Scottville Clown Band and has continued uninterrupted ever since. They’ve got hundreds of members now, most from the state’s west side, though each performance brings out only about a few dozen of them as their schedules allow.

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Buy PhotoMembers of the Scottville Clown Band warm up while waiting for their turn to march and play in a parade during the National Asparagus Festival in Hart, Mich., on June 11, 2016. (Photo: Ryan Garza, Detroit Free Press)

The band’s been a west Michigan institution for so long that Scottville’s welcome sign, placed at the city limits, features the cartoon image of a grimacing clown resting his painted face in the palm of his hand.

Things were a little wilder in their early years.

“Back in the old days we would pick up guys and they would just kind of show up,” said George Wilson, 55, a drum major. His outfit is a collision of tie-dyed pants, a cabana shirt and a tuxedo jacket. “The old guys, the Class of ’47, would go, ‘Can you read music?’ And the guy would say, 'Yes.' And they’d say, ‘Can you hold your own at the bar?’ ”

Years ago, they were considered for participation by organizers of the annual Rose Bowl parade in California. “We gave them a demo film of us, and they said perhaps not,” Wilson said, laughing. “They were a little taken aback by that. There’s a few guys in the band that dress in drag, and back then it was a little too much.”

Since then, the band has grown into an all-volunteer organization that awards thousands of dollars in scholarships to music students every year. There’s also an underlying, almost fraternal aspect to it, like the Elks or the Moose Lodge: Generations of fathers share traditions with their sons during long bus rides, all-weather performances and day-long vacations in towns that dot the state, and where sons aspire to join their dads' crazy band.

“I remember several years ago someone said, ‘Did you ever play catch with your dad?’ said Wilson, whose father known as Big George was the band’s drum major, leading the group in parades for 65 years before passing the role down to his son. “And I said, 'No.' They said, ‘You really missed out.’ But I followed him around for 35 years in parades.”

So did DeWeerd, a member since he was 13, when he joined his dad, Rick, in the band. Two decades later, he plays not only with his father, but with two brothers and an uncle, too.

The band’s most revered event, they say, is the annual trip to Mackinac Island for the performance in the Lilac Festival, which falls close to Father’s Day and has become a father-son tradition. Many band members can’t make all the shows. But with lots of fathers and sons in the group, most try to make it to this one.

“I can remember going up to Mackinac Island every summer, and I would travel with my father and the band since I was young enough to remember,” Buckley said. He’s 35, his father is 65, and for two decades they’ve played alongside each other.

“To be able to march with my dad and hang out with him, I absolutely love that tradition. Not only because of the festival, but because I get to spend the time with my father.”

Buy PhotoTodd Seabert, center, 56, of Grand Haven plays with members of the Scottville Clown Band in a parade during the National Asparagus Festival in Hart, Mich., on June 11, 2016. Ryan Garza, Detroit Free PressFullscreen

There’s so much asparagus grown in Oceana County that it calls itself “The Asparagus Capital of the World.” And once a year, they throw a celebration in honor of this.

For three days in June, the National Asparagus Festival transformed downtown Hart. The population of a couple thousand seemed to double overnight. Asparagus was everywhere.

Deb’s Lakeside Café altered its menu to include an asparagus omelet, an asparagus wrap and an asparagus quesadilla. The Open Hearth Grille served beer-battered, fried asparagus spears. The festival’s food show at the Knights of Columbus hall featured pioneering culinary experiments like asparagus spaghetti, asparagus Spanish rice with shrimp and asparagus pizza with leeks.

Buy PhotoAsparagus Queen 2016 Mary Harris, left, of Hart and runner-up Mandy Achterhof of Walkerville dance as the Scottville Clown Band plays in the entertainment tent during the National Asparagus Festival in Hart, Mich., on June 11, 2016. (Photo: Ryan Garza, Detroit Free Press)

And an asparagus queen was crowned. Her year-long reign would be marked by bringing asparagus awareness to events like the National Baby Food Festival in Fremont during the summer, the Pentwater Homecoming Parade in the fall and the Oceana County Agricultural Banquet in the village of New Era next spring.

But first, Queen Mary Harris celebrated her victory by riding atop a green-tinseled float in the festival’s annual parade, wearing a tiara, a sash and a vegetable-green celebrity dresses uk. Her float was followed by contingents of local dignitaries, the owners of small businesses, employees from local bars and high school bands who marched in crisp unison.

Then, in utter contrast, came a rag-tag group of oddballs honking out a Louis Armstrong song and marching in an unhurried stroll. They were placed at the very end of the parade, as if nothing could possibly follow their act.

As usual, the faces in the crowd cycled through the five stages of Scottville Clown Band shock �" the jaw drop, the head shake, the chuckle, the cell-phone selfie with the band in the back, and finally the applause.

“It’s all about entertaining people,” said Don Klemm, 65, who’s in his 43rd year playing drum in the band. His look is all face paint and rainbows and beads. “We go down the street and people are clapping. Quite often we see it’s like a wave in front of us. We feel like rock stars when we show up sometimes.”

They get treated like rock stars, too. A lot of people ask for pictures with the band. Some approach them after a performance to praise their music. And there are always a few fans who, above all, truly admire the men’s fashion choices.

“I get a lot of women that want to see this,” said trumpet player Todd Seabert, 56 and from Grand Haven, as he ran his hand down the flowered sleeves of his embroidered grandma sweater. “I’ve had offers on the street, I won’t lie to you. I’ve had people grab me on the parade route and ask, ‘Where did you get that?’ ”

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