Nightingale of Sicily

Li'l Liza Jane

I grew up in the Bronx with my Irish, blue-collar father. The Italians and Black communities were at war for as far as I could remember. My father died of Tuberculosis in 1966 and left me with a little money and a radio which gave me the singing obsession. I was 16, blond and broke. My voice was the only asset I had and I worked hard to cash it. I worked at a diner for 3 years to keep my soul in my body and sang to myself most of the time. My employment at the diner pushed a lot of male customers to show up. My manager was happy and my tips were generous but the lack of nobility in that profession sickened me. I spent my days off, going through the classifieds section of the Crossbronx Express. One Sunday morning, I was flipping through the week's papers, snipping through the classifieds when I saw the advert that changed my life: "Lead Singer Required". My heart throbbed while I was looking for more information, the place was across the street, a Jazz club called 'Sicily'. But would a male-centric industry like a Jazz club accept a female lead? Guess I was about to find out.

                                                                              The next day, I took off work and headed home early. I changed, removed my "Waitress makeup" and put on my "Lead Singer makeup". My parent's wedding photo was by my dressing mirror and I couldn't help but look at my mom, I looked exactly like her. A copy, a replica or an upgrade? I wondered what she sounded like. I wonder a lot of things about my mother. I made my way to the club and caught a lot of unwanted attention and uncouth whoops and whistles. But that was how the Bronx was and I was a daddy's girl. Ain't nobody flipping me off that easily. I entered the club, it had a dim theme or maybe the lights weren't switched on yet. There was only a well-dressed bartender polishing his glasses.

"il club non apre fino a sera, signorina" He said

The club doesn't open till evening miss

I learnt enough Italian growing up here "I'm here for the lead singer job. Can I talk to the owner please?"

"Questo posto non è per te, signorina" He raised an eyebrow and gestured down a hallway

This place is not for you miss

I ignored him and made my way to the office through the hallway reeking of cigarettes. It smelt strongly of men. Disgusting. I saw a green door with the name board "MANAGER". I knocked on the door to hear a gruff "Sí". He was obese and looked like a character called "The Penguin" in the stupid comic books my father used to read.

Potential Lead Singer: Good Afternoon sir. My name is Cara Moore. I saw an advertisement you put in the Crossbronx. I feel like I would be perfect for your requirements.

Gruffy Manager: Miss I'm not sure about this. My club is for hardcore Jazz enthusiasts who might not entertain the idea of a female lead. More importantly, I don't think it's safe for someone as beautiful as you to sing in a club full of drunk, powerful Italians.

He lit a cigarette and looked amused

Me: Aren't you one of those "Powerful" Italians, Mister Manager?

I squinted

Mister Manager: Witty and beautiful! I'm American with roots in Brooklyn and my name is Martin Brown. And the patrons of my club are not people who you want to sing for.

Me: Don't you wanna listen to how I sing Mr. Brown? My voice is rumoured to make men swoon.

I smiled like I was selling myself

Mr. Brown: Fine! Come back tomorrow morning at 10 but I warned you. And call me Marty.

I smiled and nodded. But heavens, I have to skip work tomorrow.

It was a contemplative night. A battle between passion and practicality. Art versus Accountability. I smoked when I was anxious and it was a perfect night too. I gulped some hot water and practised vocalizing notes till my neighbours yelled. It was a small apartment and I was poor. I went to "Sicily" half an hour early to find more than a few men in the place. It scared the devil out of me. Fortunately, Marty was there holding a cigarette and speaking to the other men. Then, I noticed that the other men were holding instruments. They might be my co-workers! Marty spotted me "Ah! There you are, Miss Moore. Punctual! Unlike these gentlemen over here. Good!"

He then turned to the band "Gentlemen, Musical Notes of Sicily, she is the reason I called up you guys early. Do me a piece. It would act as an audition for Cara and a rehearsal for the Sicily's. Peter, take over for me."

I realized Peter was the Bass and the acting leader of the band. He was around his fifties and looked a bit like my father. Maybe he was Irish.

Peter: Hello Cara. I'm Peter. I'm the bass for Sicily's. What are you auditioning for exactly?

He put his index and thumb under his chin like a cartoon character. He was fun.

Me: Singing has always been very important to me Peter. I want to lead Sicily's. I know this is not the most decent place but I got to start somewhere.

Peter: Say, was your mother a handsome woman named Aurora?

My Stomach Churned

Peter: I knew it! We used to go to the same church. Us boys went to Church because of her. And you look exactly like her young lady.

My stomach stopped churning. It was my head now. Red hot tears were ready to pop out

Peter: I hope she got into a singing career. She sounded like a Nightingale back then. How is she?

Me: She died in '51 Peter. Where is the powder room?

Peter: Oh straight down the hallway dear. Are you okay?

I didn't answer. I hurried down to the powder room and threw up. I looked up into the mirror. My hair was okay, my makeup was slightly off and my dress was perfect. The mirror sometimes shows us the bitter truth and today it didn't show Cara Moore, it showed her mysterious mother. I pulled out my clutch and started touching myself up. My hands were doing only one thing but my head was racing. Why did my father not tell me much about her? Didn't he like her? Did he kill her? Accountability won and I rejected all my thoughts. My father was not rich but he was a gentleman. I went back to find the band tuning their instruments and smoking. My eyes met with Peter's and he mouthed "Are you okay?" I nodded.

Me: Shall we start gentlemen?

I wasn't timid anymore. I came to sing and sing I shall.

Marty: At last! Come on missy. I haven't got all day.

He was lighting a cigarette and glaring at his watch

Peter: How about "Weary Blues" dear?

I knew Peter was trying to push an easier song for me

Me: Too easy Peter. How about "Li'l Liza Jane" by Nina Simone?

I smirked. I knew I was slick. I enjoyed the expressions, the result of boldness.

Peter: Are you sure Cara?

Me: Are we doing this or not Sicily's?

The band started magic with their fingers and it was time to start mine.

Where is my tambourine, wait a minute I'll get your tambourine

Got my tambourine, get your thing baby

What's wrong with you what is it you want

I could see the band was happy with me. I could see Marty smiling. I could see Aldo Ricci, the bartender put down his polishing cloth. I could see myself singing to drunk Italians losing their mind over my voice. I could see myself buying whatever I wanted. I could see myself moving out of the Bronx.

I sang like my voice was dying. I sang like the Yankees losing. I sang like there was no tomorrow and no Christmas after. I sang like a pleading nightingale. I sang for my father. I sang like my mother, Aurora Moore. I sang

Oh Little Liza Liza Jane, oh Little Liza Liza Jane

Oh Little Liza Liza Jane, oh Little Liza Liza Jane