It Was Only Ever You by Kate Kerrigan Page A

Sheila Klein – Music Impresario. She was only mad at herself for not doing this years ago, irritated by the part of her that had set her own ambitions aside out of loyalty to Dan and – yes – perhaps a bit of fearful laziness too. Those days were over now. All she had to do was find herself some talent, and if there was one thing New York had in abundance, it was talent. There was nothing to hold Sheila back. Not a man, or a job or responsibilities of any kind. She was as free as a bird to pursue her dream and, hell, was she going to fly.
    She leapt out of bed and checked her watch. Four o’clock. Her friend Frankie the Sax had a regular gig playing with a five piece at a dinner club up on Lexington. Frankie was old-school. He had no manager – he worked all the time on word-of-mouth and more or less lived in the places he worked. He’d be up there now in the small club kitchen, eating his main meal of the day with the kitchen staff buzzing all around him. Then he’d march out to the bar and drink a few beers, followed by three whiskey chasers, then slide nice and easy over to the stage where he’d be mellow and smiling before the punters came in for the pre-theatre dinner bookings at six.
    Frankie was a great place to start and with that knowledge Sheila felt a kick of excitement in her stomach.
    *
    Frankie was in the kitchen of the club, as she expected. His long black coat hung down over the edge of the tall barstool, his porkpie hat was perched on the side of his head, white hairs powdered his temples.
    ‘I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, honey,’ he said. ‘There’s already too many managers in this town.’
    ‘But I know music, Frankie.’
    He laughed and shook his head. ‘I know that, girl, but I’m telling you – this town’s gone crazy. Everything’s changed. Soon as a boy opens his mouth to sing these days, there’s a man there wants to make money outta him. My day we played for love and whiskey – if the punters threw you a few bucks – well then we got to eat. Now they got every two-bit kid singing before they can barely talk. There was a kid here; I was bringing him along, slow like. He had some talent but I said, you gotta bide your time, boy, wait until your voice matures, until your soul matures. You know what I mean? He ran outta here in a huff. He had heard about some English kid who was writing songs in a “music factory” downtown. I swear, they producing music in a factory now...’ He shook his head in disbelief before continuing, ‘Would you believe that same kid came back in here last week lording it up in a Mercedes-Benz? Some man from Decca give him a deal.’
    ‘Who’s looking after you these days, Frankie?’ she asked.
    The wily old charmer shook his head again and laughed her off.
    ‘I’m too old and ugly for you to manage, honey. Besides, I don’t need no management. I roll along just fine as I am.’
    Sheila gave him a peck on the cheek. He helped her put together her list, but didn’t seem too hopeful about anyone taking her up on her offer.
    However, she was undeterred, and spent the following week diligently trawling all her favourite haunts. She headed out at six every evening, and visited every club, large and small, on the island of Manhattan. She talked to every musician, those she knew and those she didn’t know. By Friday, to her disappointment, she realized that Frankie was right. All the great artists she admired already had management and all of the new, younger acts that were worth their salt had already been snapped up.
    They were all really enthusiastic for her but nobody wanted to be managed by a girl with no track record and none of them knew anyone that was still looking for management. She talked to just about every musician in town, even the old jazz-hands, but even they had lost their laid-back edge. Suddenly, music had become all about the money. People had been buying records for years, but since rock and roll came along, they