North Jersey Blues Society

Little Brother Montgomery could sniff out a piano. Any place. Any time.

The music scene is buzzing with excitement, and all eyes are on the latest album from The Bob Lanza Blues Band, titled Breadman's Blues.

Long, long, long before electricity, there was the groove. And blues came even before that. Héritage puts such prehistory back into play.

By its inherent—and infamous—nature, the location encases any recordings that make it out of its clutch within an aura: The sound haunts.

Eliza Neal's latest album, Colorcrimes, is a continuation of her exploration of important social themes and personal growth.

Welcome to murderers’ row. For the next 40some minutes, gritty, old Chicago sends up one killer track after the next—as heard in the 1950s.

Live, BLUES People command the room: a wall of sound pushing out from the stage. Now, that same experience punches out from The Skin I'm In.

Remember the iconic ad for Maxwell audio cassettes back at the turn of the 1980s? Similar blowback effect with Revelation.

A saxophone—correction, the saxophone of its era—instantly blazes out of the box with no introduction, no windup, no warning.

The mystique of a Blue Moon Marquee record lies as much in the atmosphere generated as in the music itself.

Who needs electricity anyway? Or, for that matter, a band? After all, Robert Johnson rose to the status of godhead without either stuff.

Oh, what a night. It is 1977. B.B. King sports a three-piece suit and a seven-piece band. He is In France. And he is “on.”

Between them, singing guitarist “Big Frank” Mirra and harmonicat Mike Smith deliver straight-up blues as if rock-n-roll never existed.

Needless to say, holy house-wrecking hollers are in no short supply. Brace yourself. As well as anyone else within earshot.

Horns naturally gravitate to Mitch Woods. Evidently, saxophones can pick up the scent of a real good time.

Time has come for the great to be all the greater. And for those two poor guitars to take even more of a licking.

Sooner or later, everyone returns home to the blues. Sam’s Place is Little Feat’s homecoming.

Yes, even Duke Robillard has the proverbial “lost” album. Wait, correction: Had a lost album.

Sorry, you cannot sit this one out. Simply not possible. No way.

The blues has its share of personal pits of inner torment. In 1937, for instance, Robert Johnson thrashed inside “Hell Hound on My Trail.”