Last Night at the Blue Angel: A Novel

By Rebecca Rotert

Set against the backdrop of the early 1960s Chicago jazz scene, a highly ambitious and stylish literary debut that combines the atmosphere and period detail of Amor Towles’ Rules of Civility with the emotional depth and drama of The Memory Keeper's Daughter, about a talented but troubled singer, her precocious ten-year-old daughter, and their heartbreaking relationship.

It is the early 1960s, and Chicago is a city of uneasy tensions—segregation, sexual experimentation, free love, the Cold War—but it is also home to one of the country’s most vibrant jazz scenes. Naomi Hill, a singer at the Blue Angel club, has been poised on the brink of stardom for nearly ten years. Finally, her big break arrives—the cover of Look magazine. But success has come at enormous personal cost. Beautiful and magnetic, Naomi is a fiercely ambitious yet extremely self-destructive woman whose charms are irresistible and dangerous for those around her. No one knows this better than Sophia, her clever ten-year-old daughter.

For Sophia, Naomi is the center of her universe. As the only child of a single, unconventional mother, growing up in an adult world, Sophia has seen things beyond her years and her understanding. Unsettled by her uncertain home life, she harbors the terrible fear that the world could end at any moment, and compulsively keeps a running list of practical objects she will need to reinvent once nuclear catastrophe strikes. Her one constant is Jim, the photographer who is her best friend, surrogate father, and protector. But Jim is deeply in love with Naomi—a situation that adds to Sophia’s anxiety.

Told from the alternating perspectives of Sophia and Naomi, their powerful and wrenching story unfolds in layers, revealing Sophia’s struggle for her mother’s love with Naomi’s desperate journey to stardom and the colorful cadre of close friends who shaped her along the way.

Sophisticated yet poignant, Last Night at the Blue Angel is an unforgettable tale about what happens when our passion for the life we want is at sharp odds with the life we have. It is a story ripe with surprising twists and revelations, and an ending that is bound to break your heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780062315304

Rebecca Rotert

Rebecca Rotert received an M.A. in literature from Hollins College, where she was the recipient of the Academy of American Poets prize. Her writing has appeared in the New York Times and other publications. She's also an experienced singer and songwriter, who has performed with several bands, and a teacher with the Nebraska Writers Collective. She lives in Omaha, Nebraska. This is her first novel.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

NAOMI HILL STANDS center stage in a pool of light. Silver sequins teeter on the surface of the pale dress, her white arms rise like ribbons, palms facing the crowd as though to say, I can hold you all, I will. A note comes out of her—fills the room, clean, unwavering, unending—until a little vibrato appears near the end like a shiver, much the way David shivered over her in another life. Tonight is her last show at the Blue Angel and you cannot tell by looking at her just how much has gone wrong. That our life, as it was, is over. Her face says, I know exactly what I am and what I’m good at. It’s this right here, right now. My voice. And your eyes on me. There is nothing else. Not anymore.

The table lanterns are turned low, all the better to hide the club’s decline—matchbooks shoved under table legs to stop the wobbling, the rotting floorboards, the dripping plumbing. It is a full house tonight. The fullest it’s ever been. Smoke hangs above the crowd like a big, wide ghost. It is a room full of people. It is a room full of ghosts.

A record-company guy sits in the front. He’s come to watch the redhead he saw on the cover of Look magazine, and as he looks at her, he thinks she’s lovelier in person, and as he listens to her, the black and gray hairs on his arms stand up. His evening had begun so disastrously with a pretty but dim blind date and now, only hours later, his luck has turned. He has found the woman who will put him—put the Canary label altogether—on the map. Of this he is certain. The hairs on his arms are never wrong.

In a table to the side sits David, who believes he still has a shot, because no matter what happens, he always believes he has a shot. He turns a cuff link, thinks the dress makes her body look like it’s been dipped in diamonds. Laura sits beside him. She is smiling because when she sees Naomi onstage, she can see all the Naomis there ever were.

The LaFontaines, their friends, and my Elizabeth take up three tables near the stage. They have never been here before, never been allowed in, and they study the old place while the rest of the crowd studies them. Rita and Sister Eye say hello to them before curtain, welcome them like friends, and sit down near the back.

All of these people are here tonight—the friends, the family, the strangers, the lovers—because of Jim’s pictures. Because just last week, Chicago woke up to find Mother on the cover of Look magazine and the whole city fell in love with her face and her struggle, which Jim has been recording, shot by shot, my whole life.

And if you look carefully, you can see the top of a girl’s head peeking out from behind a curtain, red curls and a green eye, studying Naomi and studying the crowd.

That was me. It was the summer of 1965 and this was the night my mother became famous.

PART ONE

I Concentrate on You

Sophia

CHAPTER 1

CHICAGO, 1965

SEVERAL MONTHS PRIOR

MOTHER IS A singer. I live in her dark margin.

For the first ten years of my life, I watch her from the wings.

She just started working here a few months back. A club called the Blue Angel. She says it was a very important joint once upon a time. There she is taking a deep breath, arching her back, wiggling her jaw, shaking out her hands. Steve the stage manager stands at his station in front of the control board and all the backstage eyes are on him. He raises his arm, counts from five to one, and swings the air in front of him like he’s whacking a fly. The guy on the pulley pulls with all his might so the tired old curtains open as smooth and slow as sheets of oil.

Jim turns the crank on his twin-lens reflex. He gives me the behave look—bushy eyebrows raised—and I’m not even doing anything. Taking pictures is somehow Jim’s job. He photographs two things as far as I can tell: one, buildings that are mostly falling down (he says that soon there won’t be a single beautiful building left). And two, Mother (all he has to say about this is that he can’t help it).

Mother looks at Bennett, the piano player, who closes his eyes and nods like he’s saying, Okay, you can have the candy. She steps up to the mike. I can see the audience if I lean forward a little, but only a little. Steve made an X out of yellow tape and this is where I sit. If I want to stay here, says Steve, says Jim, says Saul, Stay on your X.

When she appears onstage all the chatter and glass clanking gives over to applause. A little whistle here and there. I clap, too, because I want her to know I’m her biggest fan. Even though I know her better than anybody else.

Tonight I clap so hard I think she’ll look over at me and pull me out of the wing into the spotlight and introduce me as her daughter, whom I love more than anything, she’ll say. But she doesn’t.

The lights get cranked up a little, shine off her white skin and dark red, shiny hair. She glows beneath the spotlight.

Jim opens the body of his camera and fixes a roll of film to its spool.

Mother smiles. Hello, she says to the crowd, as if to a neighbor dropped by for coffee. More applause. Some folks saying hello themselves. When she raises her arm, everybody settles down and waits. She breathes in, her belly against the bones of the dress, and lets out a single, clean note that says, Let go. I’ve got you.

She moves into the first song slowly, like she knows she might be too much for you. She lets you take your time getting used to her—the sounds she makes, the way she moves—and she won’t proceed with all she’s got until she’s sure you can take it.

I pull my knees up, wrap my plaid uniform skirt around my legs, and set my chin on my knees. You don’t know her, I think. Only I know her.

Jim takes one shot after another. He smiles while he does it, like they’re talking to each other, like it’s just the two of them. They go way back, he says. But when I ask how they met, he just says, It’s a long story, kid.

Under her gown, Mother is standing with her legs apart like the sailor boy on the Cracker Jack box. All the dresses she chooses have to allow this position no matter how much Hilda nags. You can wear nice-fitting gown like movie star, Hilda always says. And every time Mother goes, Hmm, we’ll have to think about that, won’t we? But that’s just her pretending to consider something you’ve said. It’s one of her famous tricks.

She goes on and on, singing us through all our feelings, even old Steve with his headset half on. And though we do this several nights a week, when she rushes off the stage before the encore and waves me over with her Hurry! Hurry! gesture, I feel like I’ve been chosen before everyone else in the club—and maybe in the world. I run to her, hug her, my face pressed into tulle and sequins, steam coming off her like a racehorse, and she says, Homestretch, kitten!

She waits a second before returning to the stage, holding my hand in the wing, and says, It just doesn’t matter how small a crowd is, so long as they adore you.

All night I wait for these tiny moments that are just between us.

She runs back out into the hot lights, revived enough, by me I think, for one last song.

When it’s all over, Mother takes my hand and we walk to her dressing room. How was I, she says, was I okay?

It was great.

Oh, good. Good, kitten.

But you messed up the verses on Stairway to Paradise, I tell her.

What?

You flip-flopped the third verse and the second.

Hunh, says Mother. Think anyone noticed?

I did. I’m sure Bennett did.

Think I’ll get fired?

Probably.

And then we’ll become hoboes?

Yes.

Eat beans out of a can?

I like canned beans.

We open the door to her dressing room. Her street clothes are laid out over the chaise.

When have you had canned beans?

With Jim, I tell her.

Help me. She turns her back to me.

I kneel on a stool, unfasten the hook and eye at the top of the zipper, and then pull the stiff zipper down. Heat escapes. Mother takes a deep breath. The bodice’s boning leaves vertical marks on her skin that angle toward her waist. She steps out of the dress and hands it to me. Then she sits down on the end of the chaise, unhooks her stockings, and rolls them down. Hilda wants her to wear panty hose but Mother says, Stop trying to modernize me.

I hang up the dress with the others. Up close, you can see how beat-up they are—small rips in the tulle, sequins dangling from loose threads, pale gold half-moons at the armpits. The linings look like flour sacks—rough, stained. I wonder if their job is to protect Mother from the gowns or the gowns from Mother.

A knock on the door.

She stands, naked except for her tap pants, rolled-down stockings, and shoes. Yes, she says, lifting her turquoise robe from a hook.

Miss Hill, I have something for you.

She throws the robe around her and opens the door. Steve hands her a note. She carries it back to her station, whipping her robe out of the way so she can sit. She opens it and reads. Jesus Christ, she whispers as she leans back against the chair and looks at herself in the mirror, stares like she’s looking for something she lost, then sits up straight. Jesus Christ, she says again, winded.

Language, I say.

She leans over her makeup station, scratches something on a piece of paper, and folds it in half. Be right back, she says as she leaves.

I wait for a second before reading the note left on the counter. Flying through and saw your photo on a window. Imagine my surprise. I was just going to watch you and leave but I would like to see you. I understand if you don’t want to see me. Always, L.

When Mother comes back she is moving slowly again. She takes off her makeup, pulls the hairpins out of her hair.

Are you going out tonight? I ask.

No, kitten. I’m coming home with you, she says this like it’s what she always does.

What did you write on that piece of paper?

She rubs Pond’s on her cheeks.

What’s that, sweetie? Her lips stretch around her teeth.

The note.

She yanks a tissue out of its box and wipes her skin until it’s pink and shiny. Then she begins to pull off her eyelashes very slowly. I take my Big Chief writing tablet out of my bag and write: Eyelashes.

An old friend is coming by this evening. She sticks the eyelashes to their tray and tugs at the leftover strands of glue on her eyelids.

When I turned ten, Mother stopped lying to me. I’d say that neither of us is used to it yet.

I tell myself, Do not fall asleep tonight no matter what.

Jim knocks on the door. Always the same. A little dance-step knock—one, two, one-two-three.

I’ll meet you two out front, says Mother, so I grab my book bag and leave with Jim.

We open the door to the sparkling night, the wind boxing a sheet of newspaper all the way up to the sky, the El whining up the block, its girders the black legs of giants. I kick at the base of a light pole.

Hey, says Jim. What’d that pole ever do to you?

Jim’s camera hangs from his neck still. He fishes for his pack of cigarettes. His shirt is denim with pearl buttons and a long collar. There’s a rectangular square of wear in the pocket where he keeps his pack. That’s how much he wears this shirt.

You okay, kid? he asks.

I don’t answer. He studies me over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses. His black hair always looks like he just cut it himself.

I love you. You know that.

I know, I say.

And your ma. I love her, too, he says.

Doesn’t everybody? I say.

But one day she’s going to love me back.

There’s a way adults smile at you when you want something you’re never going to get. That’s how I smile at Jim.

You can call me if you ever need— he says, but I already know this and I interrupt him.

I know.

Okay. He tucks his cigarette between his lips. Gotta be sure.

I’m trying to count how many seconds the red light is red but Jim keeps interrupting me.

I’m walking you both home, right? he asks, looking down the alley. Not just you?

She’s coming, I say. I look up at the lights and the power lines. Up in the air. A couple years ago somebody hung speakers all over the Loop and a man’s voice came out of all the speakers telling us the president had been shot. Jim was walking me home from school and all the people froze in the streets and looked up. Some of them fell on their knees or yelled or leaned on the person next to them. Downtown just stopped, the bad news falling down on all of us from the sky. Now everybody’s driving as fast as they can. In a hurry. All the bad things forgotten. I get out my notebook and write: Lights. Streetlamps. Car lights. Stoplights. All different kinds.

Mother rushes out of the club like she’s making an entrance onto the street. She’s in her wool trousers, satin blouse, wool fedora, the stole with the fox’s head that I cannot stand to look at.

What took you so long? says Jim.

Bennett was giving me some notes, says Mother. He says I’m straining in my midrange, where I should be moving into my head voice. Do you think I’m straining?

I think you sound great, he says.

We walk by Paolo’s with the check curtains and Jim stops. What do you say we get a bite?

Yes, let’s! I say.

No, darling. We need to get you home and to bed. I’ll fix a little something while I run your bath, okay? she says to me. The rush in her voice. The disguise. And besides, I’m done in. Just done.

A young couple pops out the front door of Paolo’s with a paper place mat. Mother turns her back to us when they call to her. They ask her to sign it and one of them says, In case you make it big someday.

Someone’s coming over, I tell Jim while Mother’s back is turned.

Who?

I shrug.

Who told you? he says.

She did.

He looks at me and stands up straight. Then he does that thing with his eyeballs where they go up and to the left, like he maybe saw a bat but is afraid to look. He starts walking and I follow. He goes slowly so Mother can catch up when she’s done.

You don’t have to walk us, I tell him.

Yes, I do, he says.

Mother joins us. Sighs. She likes to pretend she’s tired of all the attention.

Jim jogs ahead and turns around to take a picture of us walking.

Honestly, darling, why all the photographs? says Mother.

Well, if you DO make it big someday, I’m gonna be flush.

You should be off photographing people who can pay you. That would be the wise thing, Jimmy.

I’m shooting a Bar Mitzvah next week.

Are they paying you?

No, I’m doing it for fun.

She smiles and pushes him. You can see him fill with warmth. It’s all he wants—this smile, this little push. It’s how we’re exactly alike, Jim and me. We love the crumbs we get.

I take a bath with lots of Mr. Bubbles when we get home. Mother makes me fried eggs and toast and smiles at me across the table with a drink in her hand. I get up before I’m done and run to my room.

Hey, where you going? she shouts.

I write Toaster in my tablet and run back to the kitchen to finish my dinner.

Do you think I keep you up too late?

I shrug.

Later than normal? she adds.

What time are kids supposed to go to bed? I ask, food in my mouth.

Earlier, I think. She looks at the clock and takes a deep breath.

How do clocks work?

Mother looks at the clock again. There’s a little engine in there.

I pick it up and look at the back. I start to unscrew it.

Don’t do that. I need to be able to tell the time.

But I need to see the engine.

You can take it apart tomorrow. Really, kitten. Why are you so nervous all the time?

You don’t understand.

C’mon, let’s be done. She stands and stretches.

Mother hums while she walks me to my room, tucks me in, and strokes my damp hair. I am determined not to fall asleep. After she leaves, I lie awake wondering how the little red wires inside the toaster are made when I hear someone knock at the door. It seems to take Mother a long time to open it. I get out of bed and press my ear to the door. It’s another woman. I open my tablet to the list. There was one named Margaret a while back. I saw her sneaking out in the morning, and when I told Jim about it he said maybe it was Mother’s fairy godmother.

I press my ear back to the door. Mother and the other woman are talking about how long it’s been. The other woman says, I’m surprised you agreed to see me, and she sounds very serious. I don’t think this is Margaret.

Do you come to Chicago often? says Mother, loud and cheerful.

The woman says, When I can. Davie comes all the time. We like to meet here. He’s good for an expensive dinner.

It’s suddenly silent out there.

And why does he come here? says Mother.

Poker, says the woman. You haven’t seen him?

No.

How about that, says the woman.

Would you mind lowering your voice? I have a child. Asleep.

You what?

I don’t hear the rest.

CHAPTER 2

IT’S ALMOST LIGHT when I wake up, curled on the floor by my door, and I kick myself. I slip down the long hallway to her room, avoiding the spots where the floor creaks. The door is open and I stand there looking at them, Mother sort of facedown, her arm hanging over the side of the bed and the other woman on her back, one arm resting on her stomach.

She has dark hair, shorter than Mother’s, her skin is darker, too. The room smells like some entirely different season. A few bottles here and there, clothes thrown around like they were looking for something, the ashtray full.

I start picking up. The woman opens her eyes and squints at me.

Excuse me, I say, reaching over her to collect a champagne flute from the bed. She puts her hand on Mother’s butt and wiggles her.

Naomi, she says.

Mother rolls over. Kitten, what are you doing?

I shrug. Picking up.

Later, says Mother.

When I get to the kitchen, I let the bottles fall into the trash can with a loud crash. I fill the percolator and put it on the stove. The woman stops for a moment in the kitchen doorway and stares at me. She’s wearing a yellow jacket with black trim and a dark tight skirt, and has large brown eyes with long dark eyelashes. I stare back.

Coffee? I say.

No thanks, she says, but it seems like she hasn’t heard me. She’s staring still, her mouth open a little.

I turn my back to her and study the top of the percolator. The little see-through knob. I wait for something to happen.

You must be Sophia.

I turn around. Who are you?

The woman steps forward and tries to smile. I’m sorry. I’m Laura. How old are you?

Almost eleven. How old are you? I ask.

Almost thirty.

Pretty old.

It sure is. Do you mind? she asks, pointing at a chair.

She doesn’t wait for me to answer before she sits, slips off her black shoes so she can adjust the Band-Aids on the back of each foot, and then puts them back on.

Do you have any kids? I ask.

No, she says.

Are you a singer, too?

Not at all. She takes a small black hat out of her purse and attaches it to her head, opening hairpins with her teeth.

What are you, then?

I’m a stewardess. You ever been on an airplane?

I shake my head. Is it fun?

Not particularly, she says. But I get to go all kinds of places.

Aren’t you afraid of crashing into another plane?

She frowns. Not particularly. She stares at me. Forever.

It’s not polite to stare.

I’m sorry.

She opens her purse again, takes out a small round box, and hands it to me. Open it.

The wood is very thin. I shimmy the lid off and inside there are five little dolls made of brightly colored threads with little scraps of fabric for clothes. Some of them wear hats made of ribbon or yarn.

Where’d you get these?

They’re called trouble dolls. A woman in Guatemala gave them to me. That’s in South America.

I know, I say, though I don’t. How do you know my mother?

She leans forward like she has a secret. I’ve known her since she was smaller than you.

I try to imagine Mother as a child but all I can see is her in her green gown and heels, but shorter. What was she like?

Naughty, she says. Don’t tell her I said that.

Did she worry a lot?

Let me think. Yes, I suppose she did, actually.

Just then Mother comes down the hallway, barefoot, robe open, the tiny key she wears around her neck on a ratty bit of silk hanging between her bare breasts.

Laura stands and walks toward her. I think she’s going to hug her or something but Mother looks my way and Laura stops.

Sophia and I were just getting to know each other, Laura tells her.

That’s nice. Is the coffee done?

I pour her a cup and leave it on the table. She’s looking at Laura.

I suppose I should be going, says Laura. Mother nods, lights a cigarette, then tosses the lighter on the table. Laura doesn’t leave. She seems to be waiting for something.

She clears her throat. Could I have a word?

They step into the hallway.

I’d hoped for this for a long time, I hear Laura say. I’m glad . . . I’m just so happy we could make everything right again.

Who says we made everything right? says Mother. We had a good time is all.

Laura doesn’t say anything. I hear her moving toward the door. I run after her with the tiny box.

Your dolls! I say.

Keep them. And don’t forget to tell them your troubles.

She looks back toward the kitchen but Mother is already gone.

I run to my bedroom and take out my notebook and flip to the list again. I write the name Laura under Margaret, Paul, Elsa, Guy with ring on pinkie, and Jonathan. I write the date and then I write: from the airplanes/curly hair/gave me her dolls. I hold them in my hands for a minute. Maybe the dolls could help me with the other list. I go back to the kitchen.

When I come out, Mother is looking for her slippers—little marabou heels. One in the hall. She puts it on and walks around, one foot in slipper, the other on tippy-toe. She gets a cigarette from the living room, collects the round glass lighter while she’s there, and carries them around, one in each hand, searching; she is a human puzzle that’s about to come together.

I don’t tell her that the other slipper is under the kitchen table. I pull a loaf of bread out of the bread box.

Maybe she has it, I say instead.

Has what? says Mother, barely listening.

The slipper.

Darling, what are you talking about?

Your fairy godmother. Maybe she needs to fix it or something.

She leans on the doorjamb and lights her cigarette, holding up the bare foot now like it’s hurt. Where are you getting these fairy tales? she says, blowing smoke my way. I know for a fact there are no fairy tales in this house.

I don’t answer, wanting her to think there are many things she doesn’t know about me.

She hobbles over and puts her arms around me for some reason.

I wriggle out. The toast is going to burn.

Oh, for God’s sake, she says, discovering the slipper, smiling, like, aren’t we crazy girls? No, I think. No, we are not.

How do you know her? I ask, pretending to look for creamed honey in the Frigidaire.

Mother glances at my mouth. When she gets like this she’ll look anyplace but your eyes. She wanders into the living room. Ka-tee, Ka-ta go the heels on the dull wood floor.

Another windy day, she says, looking across the living room toward the windows, across the turquoise walls and low, white furniture, the black-and-white photographs of her framed and hung like rows of square portholes, past the ferns and paperweights, out the window, into the wind. She has this way of looking out, looking past. She does it onstage, too. When you’re in the audience it’s like you’re caught between her and a lover in the back of the house.

I left Kansas to get away from that wind and here we are! she says. Can you believe it?

Kansas talk makes me nervous. I better start being good.

Come eat some toast, I say, hoping to distract her.

Reviews for Last Night at the Blue Angel

[castlelass · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Set in Chicago in the 1960s, this novel tells the story of jazz singer Naomi and her ten-year-old daughter, Sophia. It is told in alternating perspectives of mother and daughter. We learn Naomi’s turbulent backstory, and how she arrived in Chicago. Performing at the Blue Angel, Naomi is looking for her big break. The author provides details and descriptions that place the reader back into the time period and jazz scene. The dramatic tension is provided by the differences in what Sophia wants (home, friends, and a family environment) and what her mother wants (success in her career). I have mixed feelings about this book. I enjoyed Sophia’s story. It is tenderly told. She is attached to one of her mother’s boyfriends and wants him for a father, but her mother’s actions put her into contact with her birth father. He means well but she just does not feel what her mother wants her to feel. I did not care as much for the mother’s story. Even though we are supposed to feel her pain, I found it difficult to warm up to her. Topics include identity, sexual freedoms, religion, racial issues, and mother-daughter relationships.

[beth.clarke · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

3.5. The ending was exceptional. The rest of it was good.

[rglossne · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This moving debut novel is about the the many ways we love, the many forms that family can take, and the powerful effects that loss has on our lives. Naomi, a talented undiscovered jazz singer, and her ten year old daughter Sophia, live in Chicago in the 1960s, but Naomi's story is revealed in flashbacks that she narrates. Naomi struggles with society's limitations, as does Sophia in her turn. Issues of race, the war in Vietnam, gender and sexual identity are all explored.The characters are unforgettable, the writing excellent, the story moving. This would be an excellent book club choice.

[mamashepp · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Just beautiful writing and damn did I cry!

[dallenbaugh_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I was quite impressed by this first novel by author Rebecca Rotert. The story involves the singer Naomi Hill and her daughter Sophia as they alternate telling their stories, first of Naomi's childhood and her struggle to win fame as a jazz singer and then of her daughter's struggle to find her place in her mother's world where everything is constantly changing. The one exception to their chaotic lives is the constant presence of Jim, a passionate photographer of both old buildings and of Naomi. He loves Naomi and is willing to accept her as she is, but more importantly he loves Sophia and gives her the stability and attention that her mother can only achieve on occasion. The other two important characters to both Naomi and Sophia are Sister Eye and her sibling Rita. The book explores different kinds of love, the ways women can be torn between having a career or having the conventional life of husband and family, and by how we survive loss of all different kinds. This book kept me interested the whole way through.

[melaniehope · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed this book and it was between 3 and 4 stars. It started off slowly but then gains momentum. The story takes place in the 1960s in Chicago. Naomi is focused more on gaining stardom than on raising her daughter Sophia. Sophia is more the adult in this book struggling to have a normal family life. The only good influences are her mom's friend, Jim and Sister Eye and Rita.The book goes back and forth as seen by Sophia and Naomi. With Naomi, we got back to the 1950s and learned more about how she grew up and what motivated her to leave home for the big city.This was a well written book that was a poignant look at the relationship between 11 year old Sophia and her mother. I received a complimentary copy via Librarything.com

[librarian1204 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I enjoy books where the MC is a young person. I like the perspective and the freshness provided by youth. Last Night at the Blue Angel, was an excellent example of this. Sophia is ten, in 1965 and lives in a hotel in Chicago with her mother, Naomi, a singer at the Blue Angel, a less than top of the line Jazz club. Sophia's life is full of adults from Jim, the photographer, who obviously adores her mother, to a seamstress and a nun who are her mother's friends,The present day story is told by Sophia. Naomi, tells the back story of how their present life came to be. Naomi is a very flawed mother figure, exposing Sophia to adult situations that reveal mom's inability to know who she wants in her life. The one constant, Jim, is always there, to pick up the pieces and attempt to give Sophia as normal a life as possible. Chicago, the architecture of the city, segregation in schools and neighborhoods, the way of life in the 1960s all add the perfect backdrop to the story.Very well written, this is a first novel, that demands a follow up. Read as a selection from LibraryThing.

[kdabra4 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed this one a lot (compliments of LibraryThing). It is 1965 in Chicago--segregation, the Cold War, and razing of some old Chicago buildings all play a part. A single mother, the talented Naomi, sings at The Blue Angel nightclub to support herself and her 10 year old daughter Sophia. Sophia is said to look like Howdy Doody, and yearns for the day when she will be as beautiful and popular as Naomi. Everyone loves Naomi, yet she cannot settle on who to love back. There are many affairs with men and women alike; but Naomi removes herself from any real emotions, even as someone from her past appears in her audience one night and "complicates" things.Naomi's best friend Jim from early days in Chicago is the closest thing to a dad that Sophia has ever had; but Naomi doesn't grasp the importance or the meaning of their relationship. Jim is a photographer and focuses his camera on deteriorating architecture he feels should be salvaged, and on Naomi, landing her a cover on Look magazine.The story is told in alternating POV by Sophia in 1965 and Naomi in 1955, when she first came to Chicago with an ex-nun on her arm and Sophia in her womb. It is easy to understand and empathise with little Sophia. Naomi takes much longer to get to know, but I found nothing about her to like. By the end I found her quite appalling. What Sophia says about her in the opening of her first chapter sums it up:"Mother is a singer. I live in her dark margin."

[aimless22 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A stunning debut about a mother, Naomi, and daughter, Sophia, and their lives before the mother is discovered as a new singing sensation. The book is well-organized, Parts, titled with old jazz song titles, are divided into chapter groups. Each group is a first-person narration by either 10-year-old Sophia in 1965 or Naomi, in the early nineteen fifties. One glaring error nearer the end of the book has Naomi giving tickets for her "last show" to Elizabeth's family at Sophia's birthday party BUT the next day is when she finds out that her last show will be in three weeks. The characters are well defined. Naomi is a free spirit who sleeps with whoever is there, with the exception of Jim, who is always there. Naomi needs the attention, the love of her audience. She doesn't know herself without that interaction.Sophia struggles through her lonely life with only one friend her age, Elizabeth - the first negro girl allowed at her parochial school. Sophia wants to understand how things work, physical and mental things.The two females seem opposite - Naomi is very childlike in her interactions with those around her. Sophia prepares for the aftermath of nuclear war and listens in on adult conversations around her, making intelligent suppositions.Naomi's backstory, told in her chapters, is frought with loneliness and experimentation. Her current story is told more from Sophia's point of view.Naomi's closest friends are Rita, a cross-dressing man and his sister Idalia, a former nun. Also, there's Jim. Jim is a photographer who has been friends with Naoimi for a very long time and wishes for more, but will settle for friendship and fathering Sophia.The prologue tells the reader about Naomi's big performance soon after being featured on the cover of Look magazine. The novel fills in all the gaps between that day and the day Naomi left her poor home in Soldier, Kansas.

[quiltinfun06 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book was a complete surprise. I was curious enough to request it but thought it might not be much. The writing is very well-done and the subject was very interesting. There was surprise, intrigue and mystery. I highly recommend everyone give it a try. This book will not disappoint.

[felliot-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

“Last Night at the Blue Angel” is a poignant and unforgettable story about what happens when our passion for the life we want is at sharp odds with the life we have.” - from the book jacketThe phrase “a powerful new voice” is without a doubt the most overused hyperbole in publishing today. But when applied to Rebecca Rotert's Last Night at the Blue Angel it is an understatement. It is the story of Naomi, a jazz singer on the brink of stardom who can't escape her self-destructive past. It is also the story of Sophia, Naomi's daughter who counts as her family a large and unconventional group that surrounds her with love. At the same time, it is the story of 1960's Chicago as it transitions through the Cold War, Vietnam, segregation and racism, and most importantly, the jazz scene.The story is told alternately by Naomi and Sophia but it is all the characters (even Chicago) that will stay with you. As in any life, there are ups and downs, successes and catastrophic events (no spoilers here) that inform and define both of their lives. Rebecca Rotert has done an amazing job of creating a cast of characters, especially Sophia, that you will want to root for and wish that they were your own extended family.

[silversreviews · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Naomi and Sophia live alone as mother and daughter. Naomi is a singer and got her start in her Catholic school with Sister Idalia. Sophia loves her mother, sits at the night club when her mother sings, and sees things an eleven-year-old shouldn't be seeing.LAST NIGHT AT THE BLUE ANGEL is mostly dialogue with wonderful characters who truly care for each other. Well...most characters care for each other. Naomi seems to be all about herself even though she appears to love her daughter, Sophia.LAST NIGHT AT THE BLUE ANGEL flashes back to Naomi's childhood then to her current situation that includes Sophia. Sophia is always worried and keeps lists of things she can improve and re-invent in case of a nuclear disaster. I loved Sophia but wasn't too fond of her mother.Jim, the photographer, was sweet and was always put aside by Naomi, but he was so loved by Sophia. Jim was obsessed with taking photos of buildings that were falling apart and ones he said he had to photograph before they would be gone forever. David along with Naomi was not a favorite even though he was involved with Naomi. LAST NIGHT AT THE BLUE ANGEL is about family relationships, love, and living with and loving what you have. For a debut novel, this book has a lot of depth and characters that will stay with you even after you have finished the book. Ms. Rotert writes beautifully and pulls you in so well that you become part of the story.I enjoyed LAST NIGHT AT THE BLUE ANGEL, and enjoyed Naomi's early years a bit more than her present situation even though the early years were a bit wild.Adorable Sophia made the present very interesting and at times comical. She was so sweet and yet such a bundle of worries, but who wouldn't be worried with the life the confused but precocious child led.There are adult situations scattered throughout the book but nothing graphic or explicit - simply insinuations.Naomi's last night at The Blue Angel turned out for the best for her, but the last few pages are ones where you will need tissues. ENJOY!!! 4/5 ************At the end of the book, Ms. Rotert shares information about where her characters and storyline grew from. These pages were quite informative and interesting. After reading these ending informational pages, I would say LAST NIGHT AT THE BLUE ANGEL can also be classified as historical fiction. This book was given to me free of charge and without compensation in return for an honest review.

[romonko · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I cannot believe that this book is a debut novel for Rebecca Rotert. This book will lift you up, and then suddenly cast you down. It will rip out your insides and then calmly place them back in. My heart broke over and over for ten year old Sophia. There is a mind-numbing sadness at times in this book, but then in the next chapter something warm and wonderful happens, and hope soars again. This so exactly portrays the emotions that Sophia's mother Naomi experiences in her never-ending search for stardom and fame. The time is 1960's Chicago and the backdrop is a hot and sultry jazz club called The Blue Angel. The story is told in the first person from two viewpoints - little precocious Sophia and her talented but perplexing mother Naomi. The writing is smooth and poetic and it carries the reader along formidably to the very tragic ending. The cost that unrelenting ambition has on people close to the person with the ambition is calamitous and it spares no one in its wake. This is a heartbreaker of a book, bur so wonderfully written that it almost becomes a part of you as you read it. I highly recommend it.

[brendajanefrank · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is a deeply moving story of love, sexuality, music, coming of age and Chicago. It is a stunning work for a first novel by talented Rotert.When I struggle to finish a mediocre book, because I hate to be a quitter, I keep checking on how many pages are left. With “Last Night at the Blue Angel” I kept checking on the number of pages remaining because I didn’t want it to end.I found this novel tremendously engaging. Rotert creates vivid images of the nightclub scene in Chicago in the 60's. To some degree, “Last Night at the Blue Angel” is historical fiction. The primary setting is Chicago in 1965, with the beginnings of desegregation and the destruction of treasures of American architecture stirring interest in historic preservation.Yes, the lifestyle and parenting of protagonist Jazz singer Naomi Hill can be shocking at first, but given the circumstances, it becomes understandable. Her daughter, Sophia, raised in hotels and backstage, with lesbians, transvestites, and nuns, yes, nuns, is a bright, inquisitive, self-reliant, sensitive, caring, affectionate girl. Roles are generally reversed, with 10-year-old Sophia often mothering Naomi, who lives an unstable and disruptive life involving liberal alcohol use.Normally, I shy away from stories concerning difficult circumstances for young children or heartbreak. However, author Rotert blended love, happiness and adventure so well with the obstacles and struggles faced by the characters that I embraced it all as a rich narrative.

[janarose1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is the story of Sophia and Naomi. Sophia watches her mother Naomi sing jazz at the Blue Angel nightclub. Ignored by her mother, Sophia tries desperately to win her attention and take care of the alcoholic, sexually free woman who just wants to strike it big. Alternating from Sophia to Naomi, the story shifts, showing us Naomi's childhood, and how she arrived at the jazz club.Overall, this was a well written engaging book. I loved how they went back and forth between the mother and daughter. It made the book vibrant and hard to put down. I absolutely hated that there were no quotation marks throughout the book. I found that highly annoying. Overall, a good book, one I enjoyed, despite the lack of quotation marks.

[whitreidtan · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Mothers and daughters can have all sorts of relationships. Some are close and loving while others are distant or estranged. Some mothers raise their children while other children are basically abandoned to raise themselves. And yet no matter what our relationship with our mothers, not knowing any other way of life, we assume our experience is the common one. We crave love, acceptance, attention, and acknowledgement from our mothers. In Rebecca Rotert's novel, Last Night at the Blue Angel, set in 1965 Chicago, Naomi, a single mother, sings in a rundown nightclub and strives for an ever elusive fame while her innocent but wise ten year old daughter, Sophia, aches for Naomi's attention as she tries to hold her talented but fragile mother together. The novel opens on the night that Naomi finally becomes famous but the spotlight of the narrative is very quickly and firmly on the precocious Sophia perched on her stool in the wings watching the mother she adores. Sophia worries about life after a nuclear bomb and she keeps lists of the necessary things that she will have to reinvent in the event of such a major disaster. Her world is not perfect but it is her world and she wants nothing more than to preserve it as it is. Since Naomi is too consumed with her career and self-involved to be a particularly attentive mother, Sophia is lucky to be surrounded by an extended family of her and Naomi's own making. Jim, a photographer documenting the ruins of old Chicago architecture before it is forever lost and in love with Naomi, helps Sophia manage her mother and acts as a steadying influence and surrogate father. Sister Eye is a teacher at Sophia's school who has known Naomi since before she left her small Kansas town, driven out by small minded prejudice. And it is with Sister Eye and Rita that Naomi lived while she found her footing, when she discovered she was pregnant with Sophia, and who are as much Sophia's family as if they shared blood. The novel eventually alternates between Sophia and Naomi's narration with Sophia telling the tale of the immediate past and Naomi filling in the even further past events that led her to flee Kansas. When Naomi tells her tale, it fills the gaps and explains things in Sophia's narrative in some unexpected ways. Even so, Sophia's narration is the stronger, more sympathetic one. Sophia is an appealing character, accepting and winsome, and her fierce love for her mother is poignant while her loyalty and love for the others in her life is overwhelming. Naomi has been battered by life far more than her daughter but some of that battering is a result of her own choices. Most of the relationships are well developed here but there are two incredibly important ones, with David and with Laura, that are underdeveloped and scant despite their significance to the story as a whole. The ending is bittersweet and gives a hint of how Sophia will face growing up to match the maturity she already possesses.The novel, like I imagine Naomi's voice, is sultry and full of longing for real beauty and for love and family. It is well written, telling a story that is both beautiful and tragic. Tackling prejudice, racism, sexuality, the terrible price of fame, and durability versus vulnerability, this novel is a slow, jazzy paean, heart-wrenching and languid.