Review Summary: What does it really mean to feel the blues?
“Everything happens for a reason.”
It’s a quote that most of us have heard at some point in our lives. It’s a supposed assurance that all the pieces will fall into place, as even our negative experiences have some sort of rationale - whether karmic or otherwise. But if there’s anyone in music history that truly had the grounds to challenge this notion, it would be the tragic folk vagabond Jackson C. Frank. From his childhood to his far-too-early death in 1999, Frank’s life was plagued with misfortune; however, it all really started with what happened in the spring of 1954. What must have seemed like an ordinary day at Cleveland Hill Elementary School had suddenly become disastrous, as a furnace fire killed 15 of his classmates, including his childhood sweetheart Marlene Du Pont.
Understandably, it’s safe to say Frank never fully recovered – mentally or physically – from this tragedy. Survivor’s guilt, the burns he was left with, the serious health problems caused by said burns, his untreated schizophrenia… life was simply relentless to this man. And because of this, he was never able to capitalize on the momentum of his sole full-length record, the unassuming self-titled 1965 release
Jackson C. Frank. However, as if to reinforce the notion that good art comes from painful places, this solitary musical document is an incredible reflection of his sorrows – or as he likes to call it, his “blues”.
Much like fellow sorrow-folk troubadour Nick Drake, Frank actually had quite a few connections in the folk scene back then. In this case, he was able to enlist the help of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel (the former of whom produced the record), who were on the verge of their commercial breakthrough at the time. But with that in mind, what kind of listening experience is
Jackson C. Frank? Well, it’s spare, minimalist, bluesy, despondent, and – most importantly – raw as hell. Even the most upbeat tracks, such as the optimistic call for freedom “Don’t Look Back”, are still imbued with the same brutal honesty and stark production as the downcast ones. But really, it’s in the latter tunes that the record truly shines; “Milk and Honey” and “My Name is Carnival” are especially strong examples of Jackson’s songcraft, as he’s able to weave mesmerizing narratives out of the simplest guitar melodies. “...Carnival” is particularly effective, its depiction of abandoned carnival attractions a perfect metaphor for Frank’s own internal barrenness.
Still, I’m not quite sure “barrenness” is the right word to describe the emotional appeal of
Jackson C. Frank. If anything, Frank is knee-deep in the
blues and everything that word encompasses; the fine line he walks between detailed vignettes and bluesy lamentations leads to some of the most compelling folk tunes under the sun. And really, I couldn’t think of a better song than “Blues Run the Game” to introduce the listener to Frank’s overcast world; the gentle tune, covered by legends such as the aforementioned Nick Drake and Simon & Garfunkel, is a pitch-perfect encapsulation of what made Frank such a unique artist. From the delicate acoustic fingerpicking, to the singer-songwriter’s rich tenor voice, to his concession that wherever he goes “the blues are all the same”, the opener conjures up one hell of a self-portrait. And of course, the no-frills, no-bullshit vocal/guitar setup only reinforces the power of Frank’s music, much as it did for Drake’s legendary
Pink Moon. You’re not going to find any orchestration, backing vocals, pianos, or anything else that would clutter up the beautiful minimalism of
Jackson C. Frank; all you get is some additional guitar from Simon and Al Stewart and… well, that’s about it. But when you have such elegant guitarwork and nuanced vocals from Frank on lovely little numbers like “Dialogue (I Want to Be Alone)” and “Kimbie” do you really need any embellishments?
Thankfully, Frank’s miniscule body of work has risen in stature over time; “Dialogue” was used in the Daft Punk film
Electronica, and “My Name is Carnival” accompanied a crucial plot point in Todd Phillips’
Joker – specifically, the moment the titular character identifies “Carnival” as his persona. Combine that with the
countless folk artists who have covered his music at this point, and it’s safe to say that his legacy is becoming quite secure; but, as is the case with Nick Drake, it’s such a shame that all of this acclaim is being given posthumously. Had things gone differently in Frank’s life, one wonders what kind of music he could have released beyond his humble debut. Still, what we’re left with is the sound of an artist who painted on a canvas of sorrow and turmoil, resulting in an unforgettable classic in the canon of 60s folk.
