Resurrecting the King: The Return of King Voodoo Jones

Meet the venerable king of swamp blues, steel guitar, fading gospels, battered pianos, and midnight confessionals—King Voodoo Jones, New Orleans’ best-kept secret.

For nearly two decades, Jones vanished from the stage. Heartbroken by the loss of his beloved dog Lady Bones Jones, his home, his then-love, and many of his instruments when the levees broke in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, he stopped performing—except for the rarest of appearances. A voice like his—rich with the timbre of smoked wood and lit cigars—seemed gone for good.

That is, until fate stepped in.

One night, after a rat-filled ghost tour at Madame LaToure’s, Jones met a woman who was “hard-headed and hell-bent" on pulling this once-in-a-century talent from the shadows—a producer named Liz—in the back room of a downtrodden bar. Over tequila shots (versus her rum and cokes), they swapped stories of loss, near-death struggles, and second chances. What started as conversation became something deeper: a collaboration born from suffering and salvation.

After much cajoling, bargaining, and back-and-forth, Jones agreed to "trust the process." He dusted off a box of old tapes, scratched CDs, even a few zip files—rescued gems from his flooded Katrina basement—and handed them to Liz.

And there they were. In a different kind of basement. Two people rebuilding from the wreckage, making something new from what almost got lost.

Hearing Jones' music—his vast range of vocal styles and genres, always anchored by a great hook and melody—leads many to ask: Where has this musical genius been hiding?

Now, in 2025, the answer arrives.

The one and only, King Voodoo Jones

Soles bared, voice cracked, heart intact—Jones is back. Encouraged, unearthed, and ready to be revealed to the wider world. His mind is a glittering jewel of love and unrest, a poetic force with the political fuse movements of Gil Scott-Heron. His lyrics are broken poetry of the finest feeling. There’s a rasp of Joe Cocker in the raw edges, a touch of Sam T. Herring’s (Future Islands) vulnerability in the delivery, a shadow of Tom Waits in the world-worn growl—but always, unmistakably, King Voodoo Jones in his own mastery.

This isn’t a comeback. This is a resurrection.