For lovers of blues, vocal jazz, guitar craft, nostalgic scratchy Folkways crap and popular song, this new collection of Lonnie Johnson tapes is an absolute goldmine. Now that I’m a college graduate, I don’t listen to blues as much as I used to. But this record, The Unsung Blues Legend: The Living Room Sessions, has stuck with me and found a longtime home in my CD player.

Johnson was somewhat of a Greenwich Village blues man, more likely to show up at a union rally than a knife fight. Embracing this completely is “The Living Room Sessions.” Recorded live in front of a small gathering of friends and family at the home of one Bernie Strassberg in Forest Hills, Queens in 1965, this CD represents one of the finer late moments of beatnik perfection. Imagine how the Strassberg’s neighbors felt, seeing the lights up at all hours of the night, with a Negro musician no less!

The joke’s on them, of course, for if they bothered to listened to the man’s music they’d be pleasantly surprised and comforted. “The Living Room Sessions” connects one great standard after another. “This Love of Mine,” “September Song,” “I’m Confessin’ That I’m Lovin’ You,” “Solitude.” Is this not the same set list as Lou Canova’s from Broadway Danny Rose?

Johnson’s versions, though, are hardly Sammy or Dino’s. His voice is high and airy, like male Billie Holiday. He accompanies himself on the guitar with none of the sloppiness of barrelhouse bluesmen, but with an alacrity usually reserved for the great jazz musicians of the day.

His playing on W.C. Handy’s “Careless Love” is spirited and quiet, tempered by a light tap-tapping of the foot. His voice soars and swoops with searing intensity; boy, this dude’s life had to have sucked a lot. This tune melds right into an instrumental version of “Danny Boy” among the most touching I’ve ever encountered. It miles each of those beer-soaked notes, then dances around a bit at the end either to show or shake it off, I can’t tell which.

Other highlights include a slow and bent version of “St. Louis Blues.” The reel-to-reel squeaks give this field recording ambience that’s necessary to conjure a host of different cinematic images. Most involve men in big cars, neon, and women in soft summer dresses.

For fans of “found recording,” you can enjoy the applause of the six of so folks in attendance. Or maybe the surprisingly well-cadenced interruptions of somebody’s kid, who just happened to be wandering around the room. The atmosphere is palpable. The feel is there.

It's funny, but this little novelty album, one that probably was an afterthought to release, may just be one of the few albums I've heard this year that everyone will like. Even people who don't like music will recognize it's evocative beauty. And, yes, that's meant to be a compliment.