I am in mourning. I think it is official that something that I really love is dead.
I’m talking about rock and roll music.
You know the scene from countless movies and television shows where a couple are at a dance, or a wedding, or some social event, and the band strikes up a mellow tune, and one of the couple looks at the other, and says, “Listen! They’re playing our song…?” Well, in my mind’s eye I see two old people slow dancing to Stardust or another classic in the Cole Porter/Hoagie Carmichael style. And that is the way it used to be.
Then along came rock and roll. Born from the marriage of rhythm and blues and jazz numbers of the late 1940’s and early 1950’s, rock and roll began as a near-novelty, arguably first with a song called Rocket 88 and then with danceable tunes like Rock Around the Clock. Then along came Elvis Presley, a white boy singing like a black man, and the glue that held it all together was set. Little Richard, out of Macon, Georgia, Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, and many others came along and all of a sudden “playing our song” meant something a little different—a little more bounce and swagger that brought it all home.
The songs themselves were often silly, simple and were mainly about love and automobiles. Even the Beatles, who first came to the world’s attention in 1963, were mainly singing about the same things, albeit with a different accent and with fresh sounding chords and melodies.
Then Bob Dylan went from folk music to electric and it was Katie bar the door, as complex lyrics and songs that were not the usual three minutes long hit the airwaves, and on Dylan’s watch, everything about music and society changed in 1965. Some say that it was the final nail in the coffin for manufactured, fabricated tunes from the old Brill Building group, like Carole King, Neil Sedaka and Neil Diamond, who sat in offices and wrote songs on demand. All of a sudden lyrics about “Einstein disguised as Robin Hood” and “Googoogajoob, I am the walrus” were sung to heavier melodies and it was then that rock and roll really became an art form. This art form grew and insinuated itself into the public consciousness even more, and after, with the help of punk rock, surviving the disco era and the techno era and even the recent hip hop era, rock and roll, now usually just called “rock” has finally and probably been undone by something that I had thought was dead itself: manufactured music, done for money, and with no soul, no heart and with a clear eye on just making as much money as possible.
I’m talking about American Idol. To my mind, this “talent”-show-on-steroids is symbolic of all that is wrong with music, and by extension, art, today. Nothing about the show is creative. Indeed, when some of the hopefuls try to express some individuality, they are often harshly criticized for straying from the melody or for being “pitchy”, a word that may be the only thing creative to come out of this show. The most damaging and insulting aspect of the show really began a couple of season ago when the “judges” began telling these young people, many of whom were very talented singers, that they should be doing one style of music or another, instead of what they liked to do. This is no different than telling Leonardo Da Vinci to focus on comic book art, or telling Marlon Brando that soap operas are his future. How dare they!!!
So the death knell has rung for rock and roll. That American Idol and other factors (the internet and corporate greed among them) helped put the last nail in isn’t their fault, but there are about five generations of mourners who have lost the love of their lives. A sad time it is indeed. Long live Rock!
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Walking the Walk
Well, there goes another year. People died. People were born. Countries waged war on other countries and as always, innocent people got killed. In Haiti, an earthquake turned an already starving, under-developed third world country into something closer to a Stone Age civilization, and after the appropriate initial outpouring of sympathy and charitable telethons, it was quickly forgotten by all but a few.
In this country, the political scene just got uglier as a popular president became less popular and the two major parties can’t agree on anything. What that leaves us with is two factions fighting each other and the only loser is the entire country.
Speaking of which: beginning in mid-March, I will not only be talking the talk, but walking the walk---literally---across the entire country. I will start at the Atlantic Ocean in Savannah and begin a trek of around 2800 miles westward, hopefully reaching the Pacific Ocean in four months or less. As a younger man I used to do a lot of 20 mile walk-a-thons and usually managed to finish in a little more than six hours. Even using conservative estimates, adding another five miles a day makes the whole thing doable in 120 days.
Along the way I will be sending in dispatches from the road, as well as taking myriad photographs, and will also begin working on a book about my journey. I will also set up a website where I will be adding daily (where possible) updates on my location and the people I meet. I’m assuming that over the course of 2800 miles I will meet a few people.
The idea for this came about back in the spring of 2009, while I was doing my workout at Fitness USA, here in Jackson. I’ve written a couple of columns for this paper concerning healthy eating, exercise and lifestyles, and I found myself staring at a very unhealthy number on the scale one morning and decided that at age 49 I had better do something about it. The idea just popped into my head as I churned away on the elliptical machine that is my daily dread, and I immediately knew that this was something I could do with the proper training and conditioning. I’ve now been working out hard, have lost the equivalent of a fourth grader or so, and now feel that my legs are ready to carry me across the country.
The number on the scale that morning was 355. I can’t imagine a human being weighing that much, but there it was, digitally displayed---closer to 400 pounds than 300. The day I write this, I am down to 272, so I have lost 83 pounds to date. My goal is to reach 220, which will fit my big frame nicely. This trip should put a fine point on it.
I cannot do this alone. While the bulk of my expenses will be for food and water, I am looking for help covering my expenses, beyond what I am paying for out of pocket. I have several sponsors, commercial and personal, and could use a few more. If anyone is interested in sponsoring me, you can contact me at the email address posted at the end of this column.
Am I nuts? No. I am a firm believer that life is short, and you need to cram as many adventures into it as possible. This is just the next one…
In this country, the political scene just got uglier as a popular president became less popular and the two major parties can’t agree on anything. What that leaves us with is two factions fighting each other and the only loser is the entire country.
Speaking of which: beginning in mid-March, I will not only be talking the talk, but walking the walk---literally---across the entire country. I will start at the Atlantic Ocean in Savannah and begin a trek of around 2800 miles westward, hopefully reaching the Pacific Ocean in four months or less. As a younger man I used to do a lot of 20 mile walk-a-thons and usually managed to finish in a little more than six hours. Even using conservative estimates, adding another five miles a day makes the whole thing doable in 120 days.
Along the way I will be sending in dispatches from the road, as well as taking myriad photographs, and will also begin working on a book about my journey. I will also set up a website where I will be adding daily (where possible) updates on my location and the people I meet. I’m assuming that over the course of 2800 miles I will meet a few people.
The idea for this came about back in the spring of 2009, while I was doing my workout at Fitness USA, here in Jackson. I’ve written a couple of columns for this paper concerning healthy eating, exercise and lifestyles, and I found myself staring at a very unhealthy number on the scale one morning and decided that at age 49 I had better do something about it. The idea just popped into my head as I churned away on the elliptical machine that is my daily dread, and I immediately knew that this was something I could do with the proper training and conditioning. I’ve now been working out hard, have lost the equivalent of a fourth grader or so, and now feel that my legs are ready to carry me across the country.
The number on the scale that morning was 355. I can’t imagine a human being weighing that much, but there it was, digitally displayed---closer to 400 pounds than 300. The day I write this, I am down to 272, so I have lost 83 pounds to date. My goal is to reach 220, which will fit my big frame nicely. This trip should put a fine point on it.
I cannot do this alone. While the bulk of my expenses will be for food and water, I am looking for help covering my expenses, beyond what I am paying for out of pocket. I have several sponsors, commercial and personal, and could use a few more. If anyone is interested in sponsoring me, you can contact me at the email address posted at the end of this column.
Am I nuts? No. I am a firm believer that life is short, and you need to cram as many adventures into it as possible. This is just the next one…
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
A Parable: The Boy and the Butterfly
A boy found a small, delicate cocoon that had been battered by the strong winds and rains and the sun. He watched as from the cocoon a tiny, equally delicate butterfly emerged. A precious thing of beauty she was. But she was very, very fragile and the boy didn’t realize just how fine and delicate she was. He reached for her, grabbed her with his strong hands, wanting to admire her fine features and the wonderful colors of her wings. Being so delicate, when he picked her up, in his excitement he grasped her too tightly and damaged her wing, making it almost impossible for her to fly. He brought her home, into his room, and found a small glass box in which to keep her so he could admire her. He really loved to look at her and see just how truly amazing she was. But he could see something sad about the butterfly. She wanted to take to the air, to do what butterflies do, but because her wing was damaged and because the boy was keeping her in a glass box, she could not flex her damaged wings and fly as she was born to do. She was grateful that the boy had rescued her because there were many large birds around that liked to eat butterflies just like her. But now she was injured and her life was sad.
She spoke to the boy. She asked him to please let her go free, to grow stronger and to be free to fly where she wanted. The boy knew that with her hurt wing she would never be able to do what she wanted to do. He gave it much thought and decided that he would help her to be the best butterfly she could be. He found her old cocoon which was badly damaged by the elements. He carefully unravelled the fine silk and just as carefully wrapped it around the beautiful, tired and damaged butterfly.
“This will heal your wing,” he said to her. “You rest, heal, and when you are ready you will emerge from this new cocoon stronger and better and even more beautiful. You know where my house is, and where my garden is. If you want to come back and make my life a more beautiful one, you will always be welcome.”
And he walked away.
She spoke to the boy. She asked him to please let her go free, to grow stronger and to be free to fly where she wanted. The boy knew that with her hurt wing she would never be able to do what she wanted to do. He gave it much thought and decided that he would help her to be the best butterfly she could be. He found her old cocoon which was badly damaged by the elements. He carefully unravelled the fine silk and just as carefully wrapped it around the beautiful, tired and damaged butterfly.
“This will heal your wing,” he said to her. “You rest, heal, and when you are ready you will emerge from this new cocoon stronger and better and even more beautiful. You know where my house is, and where my garden is. If you want to come back and make my life a more beautiful one, you will always be welcome.”
And he walked away.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Time to do Something about GUNS
So we now have another tragedy involving guns. A nutcase in Arizona shoots 19 people, including a United States Congresswoman, a high ranking judge, a child, old people, young people. There is practically no segment of society that he missed, is there?
It amazes me that in this society tin which we live today, with the illiteracy rates at high levels, the unemployment levels at higher levels than anytime in recent memory, the political rhetoric more nasty than ever before with Americans hating on Americans like no time since the Civil War (quaint term—“civil” war) that random crackpots like this guy in Arizona could just waltz in to a gun shop six weeks ago and legally purchase a handgun. Yet, that is exactly what happened. And it isn’t like he came out of nowhere---the police were aware of his history of making vague threats on social networking websites and yet, his name was never placed on any watch lists for handgun sellers to peruse and make a determination that maybe, just maybe, this guy was a little off kilter and shouldn’t own a gun. Why wasn’t his name put on a list like that? Because there isn’t one. Unless he had a prior felony conviction, this (alleged) murdering swine took six lives and ruined another 13 because he was able to just walk into a store and buy an instrument of mass murder. If his name had been Abdul or Ahmed, it is possible that he would not have been able to board an airplane for a vacation in Cancun, or anywhere, because there is a very good chance that his name would have been on a terrorism watch list.
I’m not here to debate the second amendment, a clause to the Constitution of the United States that, despite the claims of the NRA and gun owners, responsible and otherwise, is vaguely worded at best. I am here to state empirically that not everyone should be allowed to own a gun. In most, if not all states, to go out in the woods and hunt a deer with a rifle requires a hunting license. To get that license you have to take rifle safety classes in most states and pass an test proving a minimal competence with the weapon. Yet, anyone, in many states, like Arizona, like Georgia and others, can just walk into a pawn shop or a sporting goods store and walk out 15 minutes later with a killing machine. This has got to change, people. I have seen people in the aforementioned pawnshops, people that I know to be thuggish and aggressive, buy a Glock while I am browsing the used DVD racks. They have come in, picked out a weapon, filled out the minimal paperwork, and paid for and walked out the door with gun in hand before I have even found a movie to watch. This has got to change. With great power, (the power to kill in an instant), comes great responsibility—and it is the duty of the government of the states and the country to make sure that anyone who wants to buy a gun has to meet some kind of standards. We license drivers, electricians, plumbers, hunters, anglers, and more. Time to require licenses for ALL guns, and the ability of the gunowners to prove to us all that they deserve such great power.
It amazes me that in this society tin which we live today, with the illiteracy rates at high levels, the unemployment levels at higher levels than anytime in recent memory, the political rhetoric more nasty than ever before with Americans hating on Americans like no time since the Civil War (quaint term—“civil” war) that random crackpots like this guy in Arizona could just waltz in to a gun shop six weeks ago and legally purchase a handgun. Yet, that is exactly what happened. And it isn’t like he came out of nowhere---the police were aware of his history of making vague threats on social networking websites and yet, his name was never placed on any watch lists for handgun sellers to peruse and make a determination that maybe, just maybe, this guy was a little off kilter and shouldn’t own a gun. Why wasn’t his name put on a list like that? Because there isn’t one. Unless he had a prior felony conviction, this (alleged) murdering swine took six lives and ruined another 13 because he was able to just walk into a store and buy an instrument of mass murder. If his name had been Abdul or Ahmed, it is possible that he would not have been able to board an airplane for a vacation in Cancun, or anywhere, because there is a very good chance that his name would have been on a terrorism watch list.
I’m not here to debate the second amendment, a clause to the Constitution of the United States that, despite the claims of the NRA and gun owners, responsible and otherwise, is vaguely worded at best. I am here to state empirically that not everyone should be allowed to own a gun. In most, if not all states, to go out in the woods and hunt a deer with a rifle requires a hunting license. To get that license you have to take rifle safety classes in most states and pass an test proving a minimal competence with the weapon. Yet, anyone, in many states, like Arizona, like Georgia and others, can just walk into a pawn shop or a sporting goods store and walk out 15 minutes later with a killing machine. This has got to change, people. I have seen people in the aforementioned pawnshops, people that I know to be thuggish and aggressive, buy a Glock while I am browsing the used DVD racks. They have come in, picked out a weapon, filled out the minimal paperwork, and paid for and walked out the door with gun in hand before I have even found a movie to watch. This has got to change. With great power, (the power to kill in an instant), comes great responsibility—and it is the duty of the government of the states and the country to make sure that anyone who wants to buy a gun has to meet some kind of standards. We license drivers, electricians, plumbers, hunters, anglers, and more. Time to require licenses for ALL guns, and the ability of the gunowners to prove to us all that they deserve such great power.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
New Year's Column
Well, there goes another year. People died. People were born. Countries waged war on other countries and as always, innocent people got killed. In Haiti, an earthquake turned an already starving, under-developed third world country into something closer to a Stone Age civilization, and after the appropriate initial outpouring of sympathy and charitable telethons, it was quickly forgotten by all but a few.
In this country, the political scene just got uglier as a popular president became less popular and the two major parties can’t agree on anything. What that leaves us with is two factions fighting each other and the only loser is the entire country.
Speaking of which: beginning in mid-March, I will not only be talking the talk, but walking the walk---literally---across the entire country. I will start at the Atlantic Ocean in Savannah and begin a trek of around 2800 miles westward, hopefully reaching the Pacific Ocean in four months or less. As a younger man I used to do a lot of 20 mile walk-a-thons and usually managed to finish in a little more than six hours. Even using conservative estimates, adding another five miles a day makes the whole thing doable in 120 days.
Along the way I will be sending in dispatches from the road, as well as taking myriad photographs, and will also begin working on a book about my journey. I will also set up a website where I will be adding daily (where possible) updates on my location and the people I meet. I’m assuming that over the course of 2800 miles I will meet a few people.
The idea for this came about back in the spring of 2009, while I was doing my workout at Fitness USA, here in Jackson. I’ve written a couple of columns for this paper concerning healthy eating, exercise and lifestyles, and I found myself staring at a very unhealthy number on the scale one morning and decided that at age 49 I had better do something about it. The idea just popped into my head as I churned away on the elliptical machine that is my daily dread, and I immediately knew that this was something I could do with the proper training and conditioning. I’ve now been working out hard, have lost the equivalent of a fourth grader or so, and now feel that my legs are ready to carry me across the country.
The number on the scale that morning was 355. I can’t imagine a human being weighing that much, but there it was, digitally displayed---closer to 400 pounds than 300. The day I write this, I am down to 272, so I have lost 83 pounds to date. My goal is to reach 220, which will fit my big frame nicely. This trip should put a fine point on it.
I cannot do this alone. While the bulk of my expenses will be for food and water, I am looking for help covering my expenses, beyond what I am paying for out of pocket. I have several sponsors, commercial and personal, and could use a few more. If anyone is interested in sponsoring me, you can contact me at the email address posted at the end of this column.
Am I nuts? No. I am a firm believer that life is short, and you need to cram as many adventures into it as possible. This is just the next one…
In this country, the political scene just got uglier as a popular president became less popular and the two major parties can’t agree on anything. What that leaves us with is two factions fighting each other and the only loser is the entire country.
Speaking of which: beginning in mid-March, I will not only be talking the talk, but walking the walk---literally---across the entire country. I will start at the Atlantic Ocean in Savannah and begin a trek of around 2800 miles westward, hopefully reaching the Pacific Ocean in four months or less. As a younger man I used to do a lot of 20 mile walk-a-thons and usually managed to finish in a little more than six hours. Even using conservative estimates, adding another five miles a day makes the whole thing doable in 120 days.
Along the way I will be sending in dispatches from the road, as well as taking myriad photographs, and will also begin working on a book about my journey. I will also set up a website where I will be adding daily (where possible) updates on my location and the people I meet. I’m assuming that over the course of 2800 miles I will meet a few people.
The idea for this came about back in the spring of 2009, while I was doing my workout at Fitness USA, here in Jackson. I’ve written a couple of columns for this paper concerning healthy eating, exercise and lifestyles, and I found myself staring at a very unhealthy number on the scale one morning and decided that at age 49 I had better do something about it. The idea just popped into my head as I churned away on the elliptical machine that is my daily dread, and I immediately knew that this was something I could do with the proper training and conditioning. I’ve now been working out hard, have lost the equivalent of a fourth grader or so, and now feel that my legs are ready to carry me across the country.
The number on the scale that morning was 355. I can’t imagine a human being weighing that much, but there it was, digitally displayed---closer to 400 pounds than 300. The day I write this, I am down to 272, so I have lost 83 pounds to date. My goal is to reach 220, which will fit my big frame nicely. This trip should put a fine point on it.
I cannot do this alone. While the bulk of my expenses will be for food and water, I am looking for help covering my expenses, beyond what I am paying for out of pocket. I have several sponsors, commercial and personal, and could use a few more. If anyone is interested in sponsoring me, you can contact me at the email address posted at the end of this column.
Am I nuts? No. I am a firm believer that life is short, and you need to cram as many adventures into it as possible. This is just the next one…
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Life and almost death in Jackson, GA
I had quite the experience today. I was sitting at my computer in my place of business, just “vegging” in front of the keyboard, when the door burst open and a woman I have never seen before entered. She was frantic, and was pleading for help at the salon next door. She said there was an old man in the chair over there and he was having some kind of attack and couldn’t breathe, and that the ladies over there needed help moving him to a more comfortable spot so that he might be able to get some air. I immediately ran over to the salon, and sure enough there was a very pale, older gentleman in some kind of terrible situation. His eyes were rolled back a bit and he appeared to be out of it, and almost out of time.
Now, I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV, but I do know that when someone is in the kind of trouble that this man (I’ll call him “John”) was in, you need to remain calm and think things through. The ladies at the salon were begging me to do something to help him get air, but when I asked him several times if he could breathe, his eyes focused on me for a second and he said, in a weak voice, that he could breath. And then his eyes closed and he became unresponsive. One of the stylists began to cry and hugged him and was kissing him on the head and pleading with him not to leave us. I held his hands and asked him to squeeze my fingers if he could hear me. His eyes were still closed but his grip tightened on my hands and it was the best feeling to know that he was alert and responsive. Then, in the middle of all of this, his eyes opened and he did a very curious thing---he yawned. At first I thought he was opening his mouth wide in an attempt to get air but, no, it was indeed a yawn, which he repeated a moment later.
We kept at him, talking to him and keeping him awake as best we could, until the paramedics arrived, which was only a few minutes later. His wife had been called and she arrived shortly afterwards, and she rode in the ambulance with him to the hospital. The last time I saw him he was sitting up slightly in the back of the ambulance, much more alert and talking. I don’t know what happened to him but it was a scary situation.
It got me to thinking about life, and death, and how I want to go out, if I ever do. I have NO plans to ever die, and I figure that all of my losing Megamillions lottery tickets must have some cosmic significance, and that my “lottery” winning will be 500 year life span here on earth. Or not. But if I do go out, I want it to be somewhere that is not a beauty salon, and I don’t want a stranger from next door holding my hand, unless she looks like Morgan Fairchild…
“John”, you had us all scared. I hope you made a full recovery.
Now, I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV, but I do know that when someone is in the kind of trouble that this man (I’ll call him “John”) was in, you need to remain calm and think things through. The ladies at the salon were begging me to do something to help him get air, but when I asked him several times if he could breathe, his eyes focused on me for a second and he said, in a weak voice, that he could breath. And then his eyes closed and he became unresponsive. One of the stylists began to cry and hugged him and was kissing him on the head and pleading with him not to leave us. I held his hands and asked him to squeeze my fingers if he could hear me. His eyes were still closed but his grip tightened on my hands and it was the best feeling to know that he was alert and responsive. Then, in the middle of all of this, his eyes opened and he did a very curious thing---he yawned. At first I thought he was opening his mouth wide in an attempt to get air but, no, it was indeed a yawn, which he repeated a moment later.
We kept at him, talking to him and keeping him awake as best we could, until the paramedics arrived, which was only a few minutes later. His wife had been called and she arrived shortly afterwards, and she rode in the ambulance with him to the hospital. The last time I saw him he was sitting up slightly in the back of the ambulance, much more alert and talking. I don’t know what happened to him but it was a scary situation.
It got me to thinking about life, and death, and how I want to go out, if I ever do. I have NO plans to ever die, and I figure that all of my losing Megamillions lottery tickets must have some cosmic significance, and that my “lottery” winning will be 500 year life span here on earth. Or not. But if I do go out, I want it to be somewhere that is not a beauty salon, and I don’t want a stranger from next door holding my hand, unless she looks like Morgan Fairchild…
“John”, you had us all scared. I hope you made a full recovery.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Jackson C. Frank Remembered
On March 31, 1954, gas fumes and coal dust buildup, a deadly brew if ever there was one, ignited, and a fireball flew down the corridor of a wooden annex attached to the main building at the Cleveland Hill School in Cheektowaga, New York, a suburb of Buffalo. In a room at the end of the annex, thirty one 6th graders were practicing their rhythm sticks. The door was open and the fireball blew into the room. Thirty minutes later the entire annex was burned to the ground. Fifteen students were dead and the rest were all burned in various degrees. The worst burned of these children was a boy named Jackson C. Frank. This is his story.
The fire had really done a number on young Jackson. His parathyroid glands, which regulate calcium in the body, had shut down, causing large amounts of calcium to settle in his joints instead of passing out of the body in the usual way. This resulted in a stiffening of his arms, legs, back and hips that was excruciating and permanent. Recovering from his injuries, young Jackson learned how to play the guitar, as part of his physical therapy, and he became quite proficient. He began to write songs.
In 1964, he received an insurance settlement of $80,000, a large amount for the time. He decided to take a trip to England to buy cars. While there, he began to make the rounds of the folk clubs where he had the good fortune to befriend a young American singer/songwriter named Paul Simon. Simon, just arrived on the scene himself, liked Jackson’s music so much that he brought him into a recording studio and recorded a full album’s worth of songs, including one called Blues Run the Game. Columbia-EMI Records released the album in August, 1965, and it quickly became known as a classic, and Jackson C. Frank’s future looked very promising.
Then, life happened. After a successful round of performing around Europe, Jackson began exhibiting unusual behavior, later diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenia, and soon found himself broke and unemployable, both causes for Her Majesty’s Government to send him back to the states, which they did.
Back in the US, Jackson settled into a mundane lifestyle, playing the odd gig, living in and out of psychiatric hospitals, but mostly hanging around the village green in Woodstock, New York. In 1983, he decided to take a bus to New York City to find Paul Simon and get some money from him. There he was picked up by city officials and periodically institutionalized, spending ten years, mostly on the streets but for short periods of time in places like Creedmore. It was a demoralizing existence.
It was at the end of his ten year stretch in New York that our paths crossed, when a mutual friend got a letter to me that Jackson had written to him, asking for help. Unable to do anything, he asked me if I was willing to try. I said yes.
A few days later I drove to New York and met Jackson. He was old, obese, crippled, and in pain. I made arrangements to get him the help he needed, got him out of the city, back to Woodstock, and to a near normal existence for a while until his ailments got to be too much for him, and he needed to be placed in a supervised situation. With help from old royalties due him from various musicians’ performances, his needs were met. A couple dozen new recordings emerged, whetting the appetites of a growing legion of fans, and by the year 1999, his last, he was a full fledged cult legend, his influence acknowledged by people like Paul Simon, Al Stewart, Counting Crows and Sandy Denny and many others .
We would play music together and I like to think his last years were happy ones. He died on March 3, 1999, of pneumonia.
The blues run the game, indeed.
The fire had really done a number on young Jackson. His parathyroid glands, which regulate calcium in the body, had shut down, causing large amounts of calcium to settle in his joints instead of passing out of the body in the usual way. This resulted in a stiffening of his arms, legs, back and hips that was excruciating and permanent. Recovering from his injuries, young Jackson learned how to play the guitar, as part of his physical therapy, and he became quite proficient. He began to write songs.
In 1964, he received an insurance settlement of $80,000, a large amount for the time. He decided to take a trip to England to buy cars. While there, he began to make the rounds of the folk clubs where he had the good fortune to befriend a young American singer/songwriter named Paul Simon. Simon, just arrived on the scene himself, liked Jackson’s music so much that he brought him into a recording studio and recorded a full album’s worth of songs, including one called Blues Run the Game. Columbia-EMI Records released the album in August, 1965, and it quickly became known as a classic, and Jackson C. Frank’s future looked very promising.
Then, life happened. After a successful round of performing around Europe, Jackson began exhibiting unusual behavior, later diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenia, and soon found himself broke and unemployable, both causes for Her Majesty’s Government to send him back to the states, which they did.
Back in the US, Jackson settled into a mundane lifestyle, playing the odd gig, living in and out of psychiatric hospitals, but mostly hanging around the village green in Woodstock, New York. In 1983, he decided to take a bus to New York City to find Paul Simon and get some money from him. There he was picked up by city officials and periodically institutionalized, spending ten years, mostly on the streets but for short periods of time in places like Creedmore. It was a demoralizing existence.
It was at the end of his ten year stretch in New York that our paths crossed, when a mutual friend got a letter to me that Jackson had written to him, asking for help. Unable to do anything, he asked me if I was willing to try. I said yes.
A few days later I drove to New York and met Jackson. He was old, obese, crippled, and in pain. I made arrangements to get him the help he needed, got him out of the city, back to Woodstock, and to a near normal existence for a while until his ailments got to be too much for him, and he needed to be placed in a supervised situation. With help from old royalties due him from various musicians’ performances, his needs were met. A couple dozen new recordings emerged, whetting the appetites of a growing legion of fans, and by the year 1999, his last, he was a full fledged cult legend, his influence acknowledged by people like Paul Simon, Al Stewart, Counting Crows and Sandy Denny and many others .
We would play music together and I like to think his last years were happy ones. He died on March 3, 1999, of pneumonia.
The blues run the game, indeed.
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