It’s usually hard to feel bad for folks coming out of a background that’s not too troubled. Yeah, well off people suffer hardship, but it’s usually mitigated by a bit of cash fixing things. And while the accident Jackson C. Frank went through, scarring him mentally for the rest of his life netted him a decent sum of money, it apparently wasn’t able to fix a soon to be wrecked life.

Some folks have figured the pervasive depression Frank exhibited as something keener – but honestly, it was probably post-traumatic stress syndrome, which actually hadn’t solidified as a proper illness until after Vietnam. With that being the case, Frank was basically seen as a moody, oddball folk singer who didn’t have enough luck to break through to a mainstream audience. He was left, broke and blind roaming the streets of New York until some enterprising youngster from Woodstock attempted to help the singer and guitarist resurrect his career. It didn’t work, but at least they gave it a shot.

The reason for interest in Frank, though, goes back to his 1965 self titled album, which was produced by Paul Simon prior to his stardom. The pair even apparently shared an apartment in London for a time.

Regardless of who recorded Frank’s lone long player, the rippling affect of its influence is still settling in – players like Bert Jansch still cover his tunes in live settings today. Sandy Denny and the late Nick Drake were apparently also fans of Frank’s music, each recording a composition or two. But the scarcity of Frank’s only album didn’t serve to increase his cult status in subsequent years, explaining the destitution at the tail end of his life. Why it worked out that way for him while figures like Ramblin’ Jack Elliot continued on with relative success.

Whatever the answer is, it has nothing to do with the lack of song craft. While Frank’s best known for what amounts to his anthem – “Blues Run the Game” – there’s no shortage of adroit guitar playing on his album.

“My Name Is Carnival” sounds like there’re a few guitars being played at the same time – that’s obviously not the case, though. Frank’s vocal on the track come in somewhere between Nico and a bucolic guitar picker that your hillbilly great uncle might be a fan of. With tracks like this one littering the rest of Frank’s album, it’s shocking that he didn’t get a bit more attention during the mid-‘60s. But that was the guy’s luck, unfortunately.