Charles Lynn ponders music and culture while visiting his hometown

Guitarist and Cape Girardeau native Charles Lynn's account of his birth sounds almost as if plucked from a country song; as if it could be heard warbling out of some honky-tonk juke on a lazy Tuesday night.

"I was born the day Elvis came to town," he says.

It has a fitting air of Nashville serendipity about it. But it's the truth. It's just one of the curious coincidences that enabled Lynn to bear witness to the rich blossoming of popular music in the later half of the 20th century.

In a baseball cap, plaid shirt and single silver ear stud, Lynn is an unassuming character; certainly not out of place at Cup 'n' Cork. He orders green tea, apologizing profusely for 10 minutes' lateness and explaining that the sight of the synagogue downtown brought back such vivid childhood memories that he just couldn't resist stopping to peek around. He checks his phone and fidgets, surprisingly energetic for a man in his 60s.

"I swear I'm not usually this wired," he says, digesting the cover of a Rolling Stone with a brusque once-over and tossing it back down. He scratches his white stubble goatee. "I'm pretty jet-lagged, man."

He's in town to visit his mother for a few days before heading to Shreveport, Louisiana, to help put on Rock and Roll Hall of Famer James Burton's International Guitar Festival. It's not the first time he's shared a stage with Elvis Presley's guitar man; the two have been friends for years. But since he's back in Cape Girardeau, he's taking an opportunity to relax, to reminisce, and, feeling equal parts musician and sociologist, a chance to fathom the significance of the things he's seen.

He talks about growing up in Cape. About sputnik and the Red Scare. About banging rockabilly rhythms on Bill Black's upright bass in the plaza; the same one Black would later play with Elvis Presley. It's now the jewel of Sir Paul McCartney's personal collection. There was also the first time he heard the opening jag of "Like a Rolling Stone" wafting down from a Dylan concert.

"When those musicians came to town, and I heard that sound -- it put something in me," he says with a shrug.

But he explained the Mississippi River is more than a tour stop for big-name artists; the natural confluence of people and ideas fosters local culture.

"Look at Cape, but also look at Memphis. It's a music scene for the same reason." he says. "I was deeply affected by the roots that come with living near river culture."

He waxes nostalgic remembering old Jim Karraker, the self-styled neighborhood luthier who bridged the gap between the country-pickin' white folks and the soulful, dirt-poor black blues players that drifted up from farther down the river.

"Here was this old, corn-pone white guy who played hand-carved guitars through a tweed amp with a broken speaker and a medicine bottle for a slide," he says. "I was a Soviet-era boomer baby. I wanted to be the baseball star and stuff before I was introduced to that. I was lucky to have been exposed to these great types of music that were a part of the culture, but were sort of hidden."

Cup 'n' Cork owner Patrick Abbott begins to sing a Billy Swan song from across the room when Lynn mentions Swan and Karraker laid down some recordings together. Abbott notices Lynn's Sun Records cap and crosses the room.

"I gotta say," Abbott says. "That is the most badass hat I've seen all day."

As Lynn excitedly recounts an impressive history of the famed label, a man at a nearby table perks up and cranes discreetly to hear. Lynn's and Abbott's discussion meanders from forgotten records cut by early bluesmen through the career of Roy Orbison and the golden age of Carl Perkins and Johnny Cash. It's a moment that subtly illustrates the reason for Lynn's love of music and fascination with sociology. It's in the fleeting intimacy and complete uniqueness of a genuine human connection; the type that music so effectively facilitates.

"Because music isn't just about music," Lynn explains. "It's the product of a culture and an environment."

Without one, Lynn says, the other is an enigma. He remembers being a bit too old to run with the grunge crowd, but living in Gig Harbor, Washington, when the movement was in its infancy. Understanding the social atmosphere was necessary to properly digest the sound.

"That's why the people who tell me they don't understand Kurt Cobain are probably never going to," he says.

Abbott asks Lynn what he does.

"Oh, I'm nobody. I'm just a nominal guitar player," he says. "A lot of times I feel like a guy who likes baseball that gets to play with the Yankees or something."

Admittedly, Lynn's no star; but that's not the point.

"I've just been very lucky," he says. "To have done what I've done and seen what I've seen."

And he's seen a lot. But for all his musical erudition, he remains powerless before a smartphone.

"I'm a technological disaster," he says grimacing quizzically, holding the screen at arm's length.

He finally pulls up the pictures, and once they start they don't stop. There's a selfie with Wanda Jackson, "Queen of Rockabilly;" a picture with John Mayall, blues guru and early tutor to Eric Clapton. A dozen other photos of a dozen backstage rooms show Lynn with Billy Cox, Neil Young and Ricky Skaggs -- the list goes on and on.

They're not all close friends, but Lynn insists it's not about name-dropping or celebrity clout. It's about sharing moments, however brief, with others over a shared love of music. Just like the one he and Abbott had 10 minutes ago.

When Lynn tries to articulate the communicative power of music, he stops to think. The corners of his gray eyes crinkle behind his glasses as he leans in, grinning. When the words come, his mouth goes off to the left in a conspiratorial tone; as if the idea were a secret.

"I'm afraid I might just be ramblin' now," he says. "But the point is, that everyone has influences around them, and music is a connection between concept and reality."

tgraef@semissourian.com