David Massengill, Guthrie Center, June 24, 2000
(GREAT BARRINGTON, Mass., June 25, 2000)
Apparently spurred on to the project by the recent decline and death
of his father, Massengill delved into the corners and byways of Bristol,
shining a particularly bright light on his own family's history and legacy.
The result is a kind of Faulkneresque body of work, one that over the course
of 90 minutes built an entire world for his listeners.
It was an utterly uncommercial and ultimately winning effort by
Massengill, who has called New York City home for many years, but who hasn't
lost his substantial Southern grace and charm.
Accompanying himself alternately on strap-on dulcimer and acoustic guitar,
Massengill sang original ballads based on people and incidents from
Bristol's past.
We met Frank Goodpasture, who moved in across the street from
Massengill's father when he was just a little boy. Frank had a pony, and
because of that he was deemed a valued playmate by pere Massengill. But much
to the chagrin of his peers, pony rides on Frank's Shetland were few and far
between.
In "Culture Hurts," we met Mr. Cataldo, the small-town
music-and-manners teacher who believed that whatever couldn't be taught to
his young charges, among whom was Massengill's father, could be beaten into
them.
Another song recounted a hike - now legendary in Bristol - taken by
Massengill's father and two fellow Eagle Scout friends, in which the young
men got lost overnight in the woods and had the whole town in a panic.
We also heard songs about cousins and brothers, including a poignant
tune about two orphan brothers sent out west on an orphan train, from where
they were forever separated after being adopted by different families. In
"Girl From Nebraska," we heard the story of how Massengill's parents got
hitched, and "Mama at the Pool Hall" recounted the humorous story of how
Massengill's very proper grandmother wound up in that unsavory place instead
of the town bank.
"Mrs. Cradle" was one of the few tunes that in some way directly
involved Massengill himself. The town doctor's wife, she was the object of
the four-year-old David's affection who one day consented to take him with
her on her shopping rounds and show him off as her boyfriend.
"My Home Must Be a Special Place" was another song from the point of
view of a young David Massengill, this one tenderly evoking the belief of a
young boy that he is the center of the universe, that the moon and the stars
literally move along with his comings and goings.
Taken individually, any of several of these tunes treaded perilously
close to mawkishness. But with his resonant, conversational baritone, his
gentle, evocative accompaniment, and readings from primary documents -
letters and essays by his forebears - Massengill succeeded in creating a
dramatic setting in which these sentimental tales could be placed without
relying on excess sentimentality.
"They're not going to change the world," Massengill prefaced modestly about
his new body of songs. Indeed, in this day, it will be a miracle if
Massengill can convince anyone to even record and distribute such boldly
old-fashioned folk ballads. The best he can hope for is to emphasize the
oral history and educational aspect of his new work and perhaps get some
grant money to support some kind of non-profit-backed recording or
theatrical presentation of this fine new literary work.
[This column originally appeared in the Berkshire Eagle on June 28, 2000.
Copyright Seth Rogovoy 2000. All rights reserved.]
Seth Rogovoy rogovoy@berkshire.net music news, interviews, reviews, et al.
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