Theater Review: 'Woody Sez'

“Sing, O muse, of the man who wandered far and wide, saw the cities and learned the thoughts of many men, and on the seas suffered many woes.”

—the Odyssey

“Woody Sez: the Life and Music of Woody Guthrie” is now playing at the Asolo Rep. The title speaks of the scale of the ambition — like saying “Einstein Equates: the Life and Physics of Albert Einstein.” This is no mere song revue or a by-the-numbers biography. It easily could have been. But creators David M. Lutken (who plays Guthrie) and Nick Corley (who also directs) had something else in mind.

Their musical tracks the folksinger’s life from his hard-scrabble youth in Oklahoma and Texas to the Dust Bowl exodus, to his sharp turn to the left in California, and battles with radio stations in New York City — and literal battles when he enlisted in World War II (and slapped a “This Machine Kills Fascists” sticker on his guitar). It’s a long, strange trip with a cruel ending worthy of a “Twilight Zone” episode. The fat cats and the Dust Bowl didn’t get him, but Huntington’s disease did. That hereditary, degenerative muscular disease took Guthrie down in his final years. By the 1960s, he couldn’t move or speak. It was the era when Bob Dylan and other singer-songwriters were walking his road. And he couldn’t even make any wisecracks.

Lutken and Corley’s musical unfolds this odyssey in Guthrie’s own words, taken from his “Woody Sez” column in “The Daily Worker,” his autobiography and other sources. You don’t simply hear Guthrie’s story; you hear his voice. Songs, too. (That goes without saying, but I decided to say it anyway.)

The 35 songs include “This Land is Your Land,” “So Long, It’s Been Good To Know Yuh,” etc. Most of us know these tunes by heart — or the non-radical portions, anyway. Guthrie’s songs are crowd-pleasers — but this musical isn’t out to please the crowd. There’s no applause bait, no emotional manipulation. The musical places Guthrie’s songs in context. And always puts the story first.

That’s not to say the music is shortchanged. Lutken plays a mean guitar — and a Dylan-esque harmonica, too. He’s backed up by three amazingly talented performers: Helen Jean Russell, Darcie Deaville and David Finch. They tackle autoharps, dulcimers, banjos, stand-up bass, violins (aka fiddles), mandolins, guitars, spoons and instruments unknown. And turn on a dime from duets to solos to quartets in Lutken’s fast-paced musical direction. Great music. But never just music.

Guthrie’s songs themselves are stories. Packed with truth. The story around them also rings true. Corley’s direction honors the narrative’s organic quality. The story’s just happening, unfolding at random. Artifice disguised as artlessness. He does it so well, it’s almost rude to point it out.

The three supporting singer/actors take turns as various characters — Will Geer, Pete Seeger, or Guthrie’s mother as the story dictates. Fine actors, yes. But most of the time, they’re just cranking out the music. The first-person narrative is on Lutken’s shoulders. And he can act as good as he can play. The long, lanky Lutken looks and sounds like Guthrie. Appearance is on his side, but he goes beyond it. He channels Guthrie’s spirit without doing a flat-out imitation. And a spirited, passionate performance it is. This is clearly a labor of love. And a lot of hard-thinking.

Corley and Lutken never take the easy road. Whitewash Guthrie’s red politics? Nope. Tell the tale in order? No. The narrative switches back on itself, like a tale around a campfire. Song and story form a seamless web here. And there’s a surprising amount of both. With Guthrie, what you leave out is always a problem. (He wrote more than 1,000 songs — and had a fair amount to say in print, as well.) But the creators pack a lifetime’s worth into this 90-minute production. And that’s the hardest task of all.

Making the man real.

Not so easy. Like Odysseus and Tom Joad, Woody Guthrie was a larger-than-life figure. The audience comes with the legend in its mind. Lutken and Corley give the legend a nod. But they let Guthrie speak for himself. You hear his voice, and the man emerges. Not a giant, just a person. Life-sized.

And that’s big enough.