Photograph by Matt McFarland
The elevator whizzes to the top of the Lindell high-rise, and you step into Gene Lynn's penthouse apartment, and the first thing you see is a giant plush teddy bear. "I was walking through Walgreens, feeling a little bit depressed, and I saw him," Lynn explains. "I said, 'You look like you need a friend.'" Lynn knows the feeling; he lost one of his two sons in a boating accident in 2008, right after he sold the legendary jazz club he'd run for 30 years. Married three times, he now lives alone. His sister died earlier this year. And just as this interview ended, the phone rang. He listened, put a hand to his cheek, and moaned, "Oh no. Oh no." His brother had just died. Lynn hung up, sat very still for a moment, then collected himself with his usual courtesy. The man known as "the black Frank Sinatra" has never lacked poise. Before the phone rang, here's what he said ...
Gene Lynn's not your real name, is it?
I was born Leon Campbell. Back in the '60s, before my daughter was born, I wanted a girl, bought everything for a girl, even picked out the name: Gina Lynne. Then the owner of the Iron Gate, where I was singing, told me, "Y'know, Leon Campbell is an OK name, but it's not a show name." I told him my daughter's name, and he looked at me and said, "You are Gene Lynn now."
As Leon Campbell, you grew up in Mobile, Ala. ...
Sixth of 10 kids. There were days with no food. But I was the kind of kid who, it didn't bother me. My color didn't bother me either. I knew I had something going for myself that was way beyond anything I had to encounter.
Your dad died when you were 12. What was he like?
When I was a kid, I thought he was kind of mean. I realized later on in life that it was a good thing. He was a very proud man, very particular, and as I grew up, I found myself being kind of the same way.
You were the first in your family to finish high school.
Yeah, but first I quit at 15 and joined the Air Force, because I wanted to help my mom. I took a pen and changed my birth certificate to say I was 17.
Later, your family moved to St. Louis— where, exactly?
Enright and Sarah. I didn't have any money to catch the bus. I'd dress up in a suit and tie with my newspaper under my arm and walk downtown every day to find a job.
What did you land?
Shoe repair at Stix, Baer & Fuller, took home $36 a week. But I was also moonlightin', singing. I'd had a little doo-wop group in high school. Then I worked the chitlin circuit with the Fred Wesley Orchestra, traveling in the South. Had to go through the kitchen. One night I'm just singin' my heart out, and it's in a white school, and the girls are swooning, and the guys with me say, "Hey man, we've gotta get out of here!"
How did you endure those days?
No matter what the opposition, I knew how to conduct myself without losing my dignity. If you conduct yourself that way, people will give respect.
What's the first jazz you heard?
Harlem Club in Mobile, my boys and I used to hang out on the highway outside. Ray Charles and James Brown would come and play, and we'd listen all night.
Did they influence your singing?
Well, I soon decided to expand my talents beyond blues. Sinatra, Bennett, Como. I didn't want to mimic anybody, but I wanted to develop a style that could play in all different types of rooms with all different types of people.
So you're not wild about being called "the black Frank Sinatra"?
He had moments of being a real asshole. But what I really admired about Frank was, he sang about life. He was a very emotional kind of guy. I'm emotional, too; I've got my heart and soul in it. And I won't sing anything that doesn't have that kind of meaning.
You've been through a lot; are those ballads ever too heart-wrenching?
At times I even start crying. But it's not sadness, it's tears of joy. When you are doing a beautiful song, a standard, and you are able to deliver the meaning of the lyrics, it's explosive. It's all about love and all about beauty.
Where did you start singing professionally?
At the Iron Gate, in the early '60s. Then a guy from the Parkway House Hotel heard me and wanted me to come work for him. And then I worked at the Playboy Club.
In the '70s, you had your own TV show.
Yep, The Gene Lynn Show, sponsored by the Teamsters. It was great—I produced the whole thing, even did the sceneries. For "Ode to Billy Joe," there was a place out on St. Charles Rock Road that sold bales of hay. I bought five or six and had girls in Daisy Duke shorts sitting around on the hay as I sang.
Did you expect to be so successful?
I had no doubt in my mind. Most people, when they heard me, said, "The Frank Sinatra stuff is not going to fly." I said, "Hey, you wait and see."
And it flew you to the moon. So why did you bother going into business for yourself?
I started thinking, "I could do it better." I wanted to create a place where everybody would come enjoy themselves. I bought Laverne's, which was kind of a truck stop. She didn't even have black people coming in there! But I bought it for $4,500 and talked a friend who was a bank president into loaning me $1,500. Thirty-four years later, my club was still successful.
It was also unusually integrated—wealthy white kids and black politicians and doctors and lawyers of all races.
What I had was crossover, black and white people without any problem. The ladies didn't have to worry about being escorted, and all the stars came, because it was comfortable. People would get upset with me; they'd say, "If a white person comes in, he jumps over the bar, he loves them so much." But my job was to make everybody comfortable.
How did success change you?
It didn't, really. There's nothing I have today that I didn't have when I was a kid, standing on the corner with my only pair of jeans starched and ironed and shoes that were shined but had no soles. Everybody thought I was the richest kid on the block. I'm so hungry, my stomach's griping, but I'm looking like I own the world.
What did people expect of you back then?
Well, they told me I was gonna be a preacher. Which, you know, I kinda am.
You've traveled all over—was it a hard decision to stay in St. Louis for good?
[Shrugs.] You're not gonna get discovered in St. Louis. It ain't gonna happen. We don't have the agents. In Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and New York, these people are sitting around looking for talent.
You must've seen a lot of young musicians burn out, with drugs and alcohol.
Yeah. Kids today, their value on life is nothin'. If you are smart enough, the odds will be in your favor. But if you are going to be stupid, stupid things are going to happen to you. You are doing it to yourself, and you are not going to win, simple as that. If you can't play the game to win, then you are stuck on stupid.
What do parents do wrong?
You cannot wait till your kid gets to be 12 or 13 to start teaching them. You have to start when they are babies. You can't give a kid a sucker all his life and then turn around and take it away. So as babies, it's "You can have a sucker if..."
You must miss your son terribly.
He was a good kid. He was a gentleman.
How do you cope with that kind of loss?
I don't question God. But I also don't feel like, "God did that." We as people have our own destiny. We can decide what to do. People who say, "God meant for that to happen"—that's a cop-out.
What did three marriages teach you?
One of the biggest problems for me is, you have to be in love. If I do the little-bitty things for you on a daily basis to make you feel good, then you gotta know I'm thinking about you and I've got you on my mind, and however your day was, I want to make it better.
So you're a romantic—not surprising.
I used to go buy her 10 outfits. I'd say, "Honey, pick out five of them," and nine times out of 10, she'd end up keeping them all! [Long pause.] Men don't choose women. Women choose men. And that makes a world of difference. Men learn to love through women. Women are made up of love.
Any advice for couples?
Have a bitch night. Go out to dinner and tell each other what's on your mind, instead of letting things pile up and all of a sudden explode. Everybody's eventually going to tell the truth about everything anyway. But in the meantime, you don't want to walk around wondering. It's poison. It destroys your mind. It destroys your body.
Your friends call you a philosopher.
What we encounter today about being human started in the beginning of time. You think you are going to change that?
You're also famous for giving good advice.
It's not a big deal to tell you what you already know that you don't want to admit you already know. People just don't want to face the music. I say, "Don't blame yourself for being a human being. It's OK to make mistakes, as long as you realize them before they destroy you."
Is there any wisdom in the lyrics from the old songbook?
A lot. Like in "The Good Life": "So please be honest with yourself, don't try to fake romance. It's the good life to be free and explore the unknown. Like the heartaches when you learn you must face them alone."
