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JOSEPHINE BAKER’S LAST DANCE
by Sherry Jones, Biography/Historical
304 pp., $11.00 (paperback) $11.99 (Kindle)
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JOSEPHINE BAKER’S LAST DANCE
by Sherry Jones
Publisher: Gallery Books
Pages: 304
Genre: Biography/Historical
by Sherry Jones
Publisher: Gallery Books
Pages: 304
Genre: Biography/Historical
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My Review
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I’d only known Josephine Baker as a famous Parisian singer and dancer. Then I happened to watch the movie which revealed her life from her desperate, dark beginning to her triumphant final scene, sharing her many romances, her fight for equal rights and the oppression of the Nazis, along with her drive to affect change, leaving me breathless and in tears. Sherry Jones managed to do the same in her novel, adding her own touches to make the story even more in depth and thrilling. You may know the singer and dancer, but this slightly fictional account of her life reveals insights into her thoughts and feelings and I found it fascinating.
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From the author of The Jewel of Medina, a moving and insightful novel
based on the life of legendary performer and activist Josephine Baker,
perfect for fans of The Paris Wife and Hidden Figures.
based on the life of legendary performer and activist Josephine Baker,
perfect for fans of The Paris Wife and Hidden Figures.
Discover the fascinating and singular life story of Josephine Baker—actress, singer, dancer, Civil Rights activist, member of the
French Resistance during WWII, and a woman dedicated to erasing
prejudice and creating a more equitable world—in Josephine Baker’s Last
Dance.In this illuminating biographical novel, Sherry Jones brings to life
Josephine’s early years in servitude and poverty in America, her rise to
fame as a showgirl in her famous banana skirt, her activism against
discrimination, and her many loves and losses. From 1920s Paris to 1960s
Washington, to her final, triumphant performance, one of the most
extraordinary lives of the twentieth century comes to stunning life on
the page.
French Resistance during WWII, and a woman dedicated to erasing
prejudice and creating a more equitable world—in Josephine Baker’s Last
Dance.In this illuminating biographical novel, Sherry Jones brings to life
Josephine’s early years in servitude and poverty in America, her rise to
fame as a showgirl in her famous banana skirt, her activism against
discrimination, and her many loves and losses. From 1920s Paris to 1960s
Washington, to her final, triumphant performance, one of the most
extraordinary lives of the twentieth century comes to stunning life on
the page.
With intimate prose and comprehensive research, Sherry Jones brings
this remarkable and compelling public figure into focus for the first
time in a joyous celebration of a life lived in technicolor, a powerful
woman who continues to inspire today.
Purchase Josephine Baker’s Last Dance in paperback, ebook, and audiobook formats on Simon and Schuster’s website (available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, BooksAMillion, Indiebound, Kobo, and other sites). Learn more about Sherry’s books at www.authorsherryjones.com
Just before she entered the stage door, a
drop of rain hit her on the head. No, that was not a bad omen, only a
reminder to do her best, to shine like the star she was, or would be.
Wilsie came running up—Mr. Sissle was there, but Mr. Blake had yet to
arrive. “You’ll knock ’em dead, Tumpy. Just do your dancing and forget
the rest.” Josephine didn’t need to be told that. She was ready.
drop of rain hit her on the head. No, that was not a bad omen, only a
reminder to do her best, to shine like the star she was, or would be.
Wilsie came running up—Mr. Sissle was there, but Mr. Blake had yet to
arrive. “You’ll knock ’em dead, Tumpy. Just do your dancing and forget
the rest.” Josephine didn’t need to be told that. She was ready.
She flexed and stretched her arms as she
walked with Wilsie across the stage, past the musicians gathering,
trumpets and saxophones and drums and a clarinet, down into the
auditorium, where a slender man spoke to a white-haired man at his side.
He turned his head very slightly and looked her up and down from the
corners of his shrewd, hard eyes. His mouth pursed.
walked with Wilsie across the stage, past the musicians gathering,
trumpets and saxophones and drums and a clarinet, down into the
auditorium, where a slender man spoke to a white-haired man at his side.
He turned his head very slightly and looked her up and down from the
corners of his shrewd, hard eyes. His mouth pursed.
“How old are you?” he’d said before Wilsie
had even introduced them. The stage door opened, and a very
dark-skinned man with a bald head hurried in, talking about “the damned
rain,” scampering down the steps, striding up the aisle, shaking water
from his clothes.
had even introduced them. The stage door opened, and a very
dark-skinned man with a bald head hurried in, talking about “the damned
rain,” scampering down the steps, striding up the aisle, shaking water
from his clothes.
“Eubie Blake,” he said, smiling, holding out his hand to her.
“This is Tumpy, Mr. Blake, the one I told you about,” Wilsie said. “She’s here to audition for Clara’s spot in the chorus.”
The man with Mr. Sissle—the stage
manager—motioned to her and she followed him up the stage steps. Did she
know the songs? Could she dance to “I’m Just Wild about Harry”?
Josephine wanted to jump for joy. She pretended to watch as Wilsie
showed her the steps, which she already knew as if she’d made them up
herself. Josephine stripped down to her dingy leotard, tossed her
clothes on a chair, then ran and leaped to the center of the stage. This
was it. She bent over to grasp her ankles, stretching her legs, then
stood and pulled her arms over her head.
manager—motioned to her and she followed him up the stage steps. Did she
know the songs? Could she dance to “I’m Just Wild about Harry”?
Josephine wanted to jump for joy. She pretended to watch as Wilsie
showed her the steps, which she already knew as if she’d made them up
herself. Josephine stripped down to her dingy leotard, tossed her
clothes on a chair, then ran and leaped to the center of the stage. This
was it. She bent over to grasp her ankles, stretching her legs, then
stood and pulled her arms over her head.
“Ready?” Mr. Sissle barked. The music
started, and she began the dance, so simple she could have done it in
her sleep. Practicing in the Standard, she’d gotten bored with it and
had made up her own steps, throwing in a little Black Bottom, wiggling
her ass and kicking her legs twice as high as they wanted to go, taken
by the music, played by it, the instruments’ instrument, flapping her
hands, step and kick and spin and spin and squat and jump and down in a
split, up and jump and kick and spin—oops, the steps, she didn’t need no
damn steps, she had better ones—and kick and jump and wiggle and spin.
She looked out into the auditorium—a big mistake: Mr. Blake’s mouth was
open and Mr. Sissle’s eyes had narrowed to slits. Don’t be nervous, just
dance. Only the music remained now, her feet and the stage.
started, and she began the dance, so simple she could have done it in
her sleep. Practicing in the Standard, she’d gotten bored with it and
had made up her own steps, throwing in a little Black Bottom, wiggling
her ass and kicking her legs twice as high as they wanted to go, taken
by the music, played by it, the instruments’ instrument, flapping her
hands, step and kick and spin and spin and squat and jump and down in a
split, up and jump and kick and spin—oops, the steps, she didn’t need no
damn steps, she had better ones—and kick and jump and wiggle and spin.
She looked out into the auditorium—a big mistake: Mr. Blake’s mouth was
open and Mr. Sissle’s eyes had narrowed to slits. Don’t be nervous, just
dance. Only the music remained now, her feet and the stage.
When she’d finished, panting, and pulled
on her dress and shoes, Wilsie came running over, her eyes shining. “You
made their heads spin, you better believe it,” she whispered, but when
they went down into the aisle Josephine heard Mr. Sissle muttering.
on her dress and shoes, Wilsie came running over, her eyes shining. “You
made their heads spin, you better believe it,” she whispered, but when
they went down into the aisle Josephine heard Mr. Sissle muttering.
“Too young, too dark, too ugly,” he said.
The world stopped turning, then, the sun frozen in its arc, every clock
still, every breath caught in every throat. Mr. Blake turned to her,
smiling as if everything were normal, and congratulated her on “a
remarkable dance.”
The world stopped turning, then, the sun frozen in its arc, every clock
still, every breath caught in every throat. Mr. Blake turned to her,
smiling as if everything were normal, and congratulated her on “a
remarkable dance.”
“I can see that you are well qualified for our chorus, Tumpy,” he said, and on his lips, the name sounded like a little child’s.
“You have real talent, and spark, besides. How did you learn to do that at such a young age? You are—how old?”
“Fifteen,” she said.
Mr. Sissle snorted, and cut Wilsie a look.
“Wasting my time,” he said. Mr. Blake looked at her as if she’d just
wandered in from the orphanage.
“Wasting my time,” he said. Mr. Blake looked at her as if she’d just
wandered in from the orphanage.
“I’m very sorry, there’s been a mix-up,” he said. “You must be sixteen to dance professionally in New York State.”
“I’ll be sixteen in June,” Josephine said. Her voice sounded plaintive and faraway.
“We need someone now.” Mr. Sissle folded
his arms as if she were underage on purpose. Mr. Blake led her toward
the stage door, an apologetic Wilsie saying she hadn’t known. Mr. Sissle
followed, talking to Mr. Blake about adding some steps to “I’m Just
Wild about Harry,” saying they should put in some kicks, that he’d been
thinking about it for a while. Uh-huh.
his arms as if she were underage on purpose. Mr. Blake led her toward
the stage door, an apologetic Wilsie saying she hadn’t known. Mr. Sissle
followed, talking to Mr. Blake about adding some steps to “I’m Just
Wild about Harry,” saying they should put in some kicks, that he’d been
thinking about it for a while. Uh-huh.
“Come and see us in New York after your
birthday, doll,” Mr. Blake said. “You never know when we might have an
opening.” He opened the door and let the rain pour in before shutting it
again. He looked at Josephine’s thin, optimistic dress. Where was her
umbrella? She hung her head. He stepped over to retrieve a black
umbrella propped against the wall and handed it to her. She took it
without even knowing, her thoughts colliding like too many birds in a
cage. She would have to stay in Philadelphia, she had failed—too young,
too dark, too ugly—she should have lied about her age, what had gotten
into her? Showing off, that was what.
birthday, doll,” Mr. Blake said. “You never know when we might have an
opening.” He opened the door and let the rain pour in before shutting it
again. He looked at Josephine’s thin, optimistic dress. Where was her
umbrella? She hung her head. He stepped over to retrieve a black
umbrella propped against the wall and handed it to her. She took it
without even knowing, her thoughts colliding like too many birds in a
cage. She would have to stay in Philadelphia, she had failed—too young,
too dark, too ugly—she should have lied about her age, what had gotten
into her? Showing off, that was what.
And now Mr. Sissle disliked her, and she
would never get into their show; it didn’t matter how many times she
went back. As she stepped out into the rain with that big umbrella in
her hands unopened and felt the rain pour down her face; she was glad,
for now they would think it was water instead of tears, but when she
looked back, Wilsie was crying, too, in the open doorway.
would never get into their show; it didn’t matter how many times she
went back. As she stepped out into the rain with that big umbrella in
her hands unopened and felt the rain pour down her face; she was glad,
for now they would think it was water instead of tears, but when she
looked back, Wilsie was crying, too, in the open doorway.
Seeing the men watching from a window, she
stopped. They wouldn’t forget her; she’d make them remember. She walked
slowly, her silk dress dripping, while Mr. Sissle gesticulated with
excitement as he stole her ideas—authentic Negro dancing were the last
words she’d heard—and Mr. Blake looking as if he wanted to run out
there, scoop her up, and carry her back inside.
stopped. They wouldn’t forget her; she’d make them remember. She walked
slowly, her silk dress dripping, while Mr. Sissle gesticulated with
excitement as he stole her ideas—authentic Negro dancing were the last
words she’d heard—and Mr. Blake looking as if he wanted to run out
there, scoop her up, and carry her back inside.
( Continued… )
© 2018 All rights reserved. Book excerpt
reprinted by permission of the author, Sherry Jones. Do not reproduce,
copy or use without the author’s written permission. This excerpt is
used for promotional purposes only.
reprinted by permission of the author, Sherry Jones. Do not reproduce,
copy or use without the author’s written permission. This excerpt is
used for promotional purposes only.
Author and journalist Sherry Jones is best known for her international bestseller The Jewel of Medina. She is also the author of The Sword of Medina, Four Sisters, All Queens, The Sharp Hook of Love, and the novella White Heart. Sherry lives
in Spokane, WA, where, like Josephine Baker, she enjoys dancing,
singing, eating, advocating for equality, and drinking champagne.Her latest novel is Josephine Baker’s Last Dance.Website: http://authorsherryjones.com
in Spokane, WA, where, like Josephine Baker, she enjoys dancing,
singing, eating, advocating for equality, and drinking champagne.Her latest novel is Josephine Baker’s Last Dance.Website: http://authorsherryjones.com
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