MONDAY, NOVEMBER 23. IT'S GRAND Opening night at the House of Blues, the brainchild of Hard Rock Cafe founder Isaac Tigrett and a bevy of celebrity investors. Tonight's Big Bash is perhaps the glitziest event to hit the Square in recent memory. And, oh yes, it's the anniversary of Robert Johnson's first recording date.

True to the Hard Rock Cafe concept, more House of Blues clubs are scheduled to open in Los Angeles, New Orleans and New York City, and it's only a matter of time before they sprout like mushrooms globally. Picture it: The House of Blues, Bangkok. It's hard to believe that the Blues has come all the way from the post-bellum Mississippi Delta to this corporate cul-de-sac, but I suppose weirder things have flickered onto the Big Board.

Limousines squeeze through the alley and roll to a smooth stop. Orange camera lights flare. Flashes pop. Cameras roll. The lieutenant governor steps out onto the pavement and quickly disappears behind the huddle of attendants in blue uniforms and "Blues Brother" name tags, as impatient guests stand in a purgatorial line. Half an hour later, burly Blues Brother John shepherds us into single file. By this time, the guests are at each others' throats. A woman, standing nearby, elbows in front of me, turns around, and says, "I must be in front of you. Because, you know, one person can, like, totally make the difference between getting in or not." Meeeeeow! Her date looks on, sheepishly. At the door, Blues Brother Kevin scrutinizes the guest list and our invitations. Cat Woman makes it in, a whopping nine seconds before I do.

Inside, the club has a bizarre kind of postmodern juke joint vibe, complete with Southern primitivist folk art and a portrait of Tigrett's Afro-coifed guru, Sai Baba, beaming angelically from above the stage. The ceiling is paneled with the faces of Blues legends carved in relief, their plaster countenances staring placidly down at this whole scene. Boston Phoenix writer and Crimson alum Gary Susman '89 quips, "You almost expect them to start singing, like in the 'Disney Hall of Presidents.'" Tonight, there's also a video camera on the ceiling to collect footage for the upcoming House of Blues TV series.

The audience, packed into the dimly-lit 250-person capacity venue like woozy blues sardines, comprises the who's who of the Boston entertainment scene: writers from the Globe and Boston Rock, as well as the Boston Phoenix posse, looking very hip and in-the-know (I have to say this. I work for them); club warlord Pat Lyons (the emperor of Lansdowne Street), Don Law (the Godfather of Boston booking), members of Aerosmith, Patriot quarterback Scott Zolak, Boston Bruin Cam Neely and Motown records chair Jheryl Busby. A House of Blues executive buttonholes Phoenix arts editor Ted Drodzowski and tells him, "The House of Blues isn't about t-shirts and baseball caps. By the way, let me introduce you to our marketing director..."

Everyone's sucking down little potfuls of jambalaya and endless blue glasses of champagne, courtesy of the House. Those with long arms grab quesadillas and chunks of blue-dyed chicken off of platters that seem to float above the crowd, held high by waiters who bustle unseen through the surrounding crush of people. It would be impossible, at this point, to fall, much less move anyplace, because a dense knot of bodies presses in from every direction. More TV camera lights flare up--Entertainment Tonight and CBS--and the room becomes one crowded, sweaty, hyperthermic, and increasingly drunk exercise in swirling claustrophobia.

Governor William F. Weld '66 steps up to the stage and makes an announcement. It's House of Blues Day in Massachusetts--well, for two more hours, anyway--and Tigrett commences the jam. And friends, this is the mother of all blues jams. Elwood Blues (Dan Aykroyd) and the Blues Brothers Band kick off the show, followed by delta blues musician Honeyboy Edwards and Robert Johnson's stepson, Robert Lockwood Jr., who learned guitar from the Great One himself. Luther "Guitar Junior" Johnson, a Chicago guitar kingpin who has shared the stage with the likes of Muddy Waters, Eric Clapton, the Allan Brothers and the Rolling Stones, sweats out the loudest set of the evening. It's already steaming hot, but Luther's loud, raucous performance pushes the temperature even higher. Mercifully, someone opens a window.

Even a cool shot of New England air can't cool off this lineup--Charlie Musselwhite on blues harmonica, Letterman keyboardist Paul Shaffer, and Memphis R&B maestro Eddie Floyd. Blues-inspired rockers Paul Rogers and Joe Walsh team up with the Blues Brothers Band for "Hold On I'm Coming" and "Soul Man," and Commitments lead singer Andrew Strong belts out "Mustang Sally," accompanied by Jason Starkey, Ringo Starr's son. Shortest, but not least, is "Monster" Mikey Welch, a thirteenyear-old blues guitar prodigy who plays with the savvy of a bluesman twice or three times his age. This kid is barely old enough to have the blues, but he can wail through twelve bars like nobody's business. Carla Thomas, Joe Walsh, and the Blues Brothers Band wrap up the show with a rousing "Everybody Needs Somebody to Love." Jake would be proud.

By the time people drift out, it's almost two. While I watch the dregs of the party dribble out the door, a musician takes me by the elbow and says, "You're comin' to the afterparty, right baby?"

"You bet."

"Hey," he yells over to the attendant, "get her a car, huh?" The doorman flicks on his walkie-talkie and calls for a car. A minute later, a limousine pulls up, and the door opens. Someone else says, "Her" and points to me. So I get in. The limo rolls down Mount Auburn street and stops in front of the Lampoon Castle (rented for the evening), where a few of my 'poonster acquaintances are loitering. The driver walks around to open my door, and I step out as a camera shutter fires.

There is nothing quite like stepping out of a limousine to the utter shock and amazement of your friends, who cannot for their lives figure out what the hell you are doing on that side of the door. I highly recommend it.

Inside the castle, the requisite decadent afterparty is in progress, complete with numerous open bars and a huge table which strains under the weight of a cornucopia of Southern soul food--barbecue chicken, ribs, corn bread, cole slaw, rice and beans and buckets of tangy hot sauce. Fast R&B blares over the sound system as after-hours revelers bump and grind on tables by the twosome or threesome in a spectacle of Breughellina excess. After two hours of this, the DJ decides the hell with R&B, and switches to Madonna. Downstairs, 'poonsters lecture some musicians about the castle's hidden walls and secret tunnels. Meanwhile, in the library, a drop-dead gorgeous Blues Sister reclines on a couch and smokes cigars with two Hollywood Producers. "I love a good cigar," she says with an insouciantly arched eyebrow. I must be trapped in the Clue boardgame. Someone is sure to turn up dead in the billiard room, soon, next to a candlestick. The DJ switches to Frank Sinatra. It's 5 am. Time to leave, man.

I RETURNED TO THE HOUSE OF BLUES THE following Saturday to see what it would be like with no glitz, no TV cameras and no free champagne--just real people paying for their own beer. This time, there was room to move inside, and the over-whelmingly white audience seemed to be having a super-duper time (many of them had even seen that knee-slapper Blues Brothers movie). Hubert Sumlin was on stage, and as he played into the middle of his set, an entire roomful of born-again blues brothers and sisters lets loose heartfelt whoops of deliverance from the technoheavy Boston club scene.

No doubt about it, the House of Blues folks have something good going. It looks like their hearts are even in the right place, notwithstanding the impending Hanes jihad of club t-shirts. Sure, these people are funneling megabucks into this project and have a retail clothing division, and this club bears no resemblance to an actual juke joint. But, the way I see it, any force of nature or entrepreneurial insight that brings the blues to Harvard Square is a good thing. And besides, I live across the street from this bar, so I'll like it sooner or later, in this case sooner. So, if you want to a) hear some great music, b) scope a good case study for a business school class or c) find me after hours, swing by the House of Blues. And remember, Blues Is Better. That's the motto they stamp on your hand.