His writing. His hooks. His stories. His sense, as he puts it, of “The World As I Know It.”
His deep Louisiana roots. His powerful connection to the fertile soil.
His grit, his grooves.
His haunting cry, his courageous assault on anything false.
“I’ve never claimed to be something I’m not,” he writes in “Handful. “I’ve got my flaws, but my heart is good.”
His music, his singing, his aesthetic vision are more than good; they’re flat-out great.
At this troubling moment in the history of the Music Nation, John Lee Sanders stands tall. He’s major. In his
own words, he’s hitched a ride from Memphis, dealing with the ghosts of Highway 61, arriving in New Orleans
in order to comfort us with the good news: that true music is truer than ever. His songs, full-bodied and
blood-washed, are rooted in reality. He reminds us that blues are concerned with neither nostalgia nor
self-pity. John Lee Sanders’ blues are about nothing less a renewal of strength, a resurrection of the human
spirit, a projection of hard-earned hope and a declaration of extravagant love.