Rosita Stone is in her kitchen, cooking. Not on the stove; on the piano. She is accompanied by a cellist perched on a stool in the middle of the tiny space between the stove and the fridge in her basement apartment. The cellist has to be careful when he bows or his elbow will hit the sink. Music may be the best use of Rositas kitchen. I don’t think she spends much time at the stove. Judging by the contents of her fridge, and by the array of jars and bottles on her counter top, she gets by on a diet of protein powders, vitamin supplements, oatmeal, almonds and yoghurt, organic greens, flax seed oil, tins of coconut milk, cloves of garlic, lemons, eggs and Doritos.
On her, it looks good. She has just brewed a pot of rusty musty-looking liquid made from what appear to be weeds. It’s for my throat, she says. One of the best herbalists around, his name is Roger, put it together for me; its a voice tonic.On her, it sounds good. As you may have guessed, Rosita is not a material girl; she is an ethereal girl. Her mother is a Mexican beauty. Her father is a Russian-Ukrainian cowboy. Rositas lineage is easy to read in her high cheekbones, her jet black hair, and her flawless olive complexion. She was born in Edmonton. She went to school in Mexico, Malta, Columbia and Houston, Texas. Shes here now.She favors Yamaha for keyboards and motorcycles. And she dabbles in Egyptology, as you might have guessed from her name. Rosita Stone a name not hard to decipher.
She is rehearsing for a show tonight at the Rivoli. She is a little nervous. She hasn’t been on stage in a while. There was a family tragedy a few years ago; she didn’t feel much like performing, so she withdrew and she grieved. She’s back now. The cellist packs up his charts. He and Rosita make a date for the next rehearsal, and the cellists place is taken by an orange cat which strolls in idly through an open window just above the kitchen counter. That’s the neighborhood takeout window, says Rosita. I feed all sorts of strays; neighborhood cats, every night raccoons. Or perhaps they are lured by her music: Enya, by way of Emma Shapplin, out of Joni Mitchell.Rosita has written roughly 100 songs.
Her most recent? It’s about a man I had been seeing. There were some things wed hidden from each other. He hasn’t heard it yet. I was going to play it at the Rivoli, but I’m not ready to cry in front of an audience. When she isn’t writing songs or feeding neighborhood critters, Rosita does what most performers do- she works at other things to pay the rent. She teaches dance, she gives motorcycle riding lessons to girls, she performs on demo tapes for songwriters who cant carry a tune themselves, and she sings commercial jingles. You might have heard the one I did for Burger King and Coke; it was a combined spot. I sang, La, la, la, Coke is it.Oh yeah, that one. This is a busy time for Rosita. In between rehearsals, she must dash off to an audition. Its for a promo agency; its a meet-and-greet. They’re looking for spokes models to present products. They want to find pretty girls who can speak coherently. I might get some work out of it. I speak Spanish, that’s an asset. I’m not really trying to be a model. I’ve done that. Runway work, its something I’ve done. Does she think she’s pretty? I go back and forth; some days I think this bone structure works. Other days ...She pauses. Like most attractive women, she has doubts.
Will she ride it to the audition? I have to get dressed up. What I usually do is put on baggy pants underneath my skirt. I hike the skirt up when I ride. When I get where I’m going, I slide the pants off and pull the skirt down. I reach into my saddlebag and pull out my high heels, and I touch up my hair and make-up in the side mirror. Did I mention she sings? Joe Fiorito usually appears Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
E-mail: jfiorito@thestar.ca toronto-star-news-wednesday-june-11