Jess Williamson Defines Her Own Rules

Jess Williamson and RF Shannon at Bardot in Los Angeles

Jess Williamson created a comfortable atmosphere with her raspy voice and laid back attitude during her performance at Bardot’s School Night! on Feb. 17, 2014 in Hollywood, California.  

Approaching the stage from the right side, Williamson held a glass of red wine in one hand and a smile that excited the crowd. She was ready to perform, and the audience waited patiently, anticipating how the previous act, RF Shannon, would perform as Williamson’s band for her set.

A sultry “Hi, my name is Jess Williamson,” and a mention of RF Shannon’s show only moments before—“I was really inspired by their set”— opened the dialogue between the Austin, Texas native and her audience.  

“When we got to Bardot there was not enough room for two bands,” she says, “so we decided to split our set. So this is a different band now.”

And it was. Gone was the all-male band, now replaced with Williamson as both lead vocalist and musician. Playing the guitar and banjo, she was able to perform four songs from her new album, Native State, which was released Jan. 28, 2014. The set list comprised of songs that required the help of her vocal range, including “Blood Song,” “Native State,” and her final song of the night, “Medicine Wheel.”

During “Medicine Wheel,” Williamson fixed the tuning of her banjo, and alluded to the fact that most likely none of the audience members would have noticed or even cared about the slight mistuning of her instrument, but it bothered her; a testament to her dedication to the craft.

Her commitment to the music shows, as Ken Oak, the cellist playing with Meg Myers who was watching the previous acts before his own performance, was captivated. “I thought she had a really great voice. I love how it was kind of crackly and she had a really good range, and dynamically the songs were really interesting,” he said.

He also enjoyed the fact that a fellow Texan was playing at Bardot. “I grew up in Houston, Texas,” says Oak, “so I like any band from Texas; but yeah, she was great.”

Inspired by musicians like Billie Holiday and Leonard Cohen, Williamson is no stranger to the anomaly. Her interest in music shows her depth; not just enjoying what sounds good, but also what pushes the envelope, both vocally and lyrically. It is no surprise, then, that she sees herself as being unique while on tour in California. 

“We’re, like, exotic here,” she says. “We’re like the out of towners…. It’s nice to feel kind of anonymous.”

While she may feel a sense of anonymity at the moment, Williamson is gearing up for what is to come. She is currently on tour with the band, RF Shannon, and the two groups left Texas for the road on Feb. 11, 2014, driving for two-and-a-half days from Austin to Los Angeles. The band played for a week straight, with the exception of Valentine’s Day. They performed in Marfa, Texas, a place Williamson says she has stopped to play at on every tour; Tucson, Arizona, Los Angeles, California; then down to San Diego for one show, and back to Los Angeles for this show. After Bardot’s School Night!, the bands will travel to El Paso on their way back to Austin, Texas.

The bands have a bond that makes traveling together a lot easier. RF Shannon played their first show with Williamson. So “I’m like a fan and a friend,” she says.

And while playing with the guys is something that Williamson enjoys, when asked to think about her dream performance, she says, “I think an all female fronted tour could be really cool.” Williamson will move a step closer to that goal when she opens for Angel Olsen at Red 7 in Austin this year.

Until then, she is has full control of the trajectory of her career. “I tried to create smoke and mirrors,” says Williamson, “but I pretty much do everything myself.” From planning this tour, booking shows and interacting with the right people to play at the right places, she does not let anything stand in her way, and has proven that her hard work is already paying off. 

The Parisian Perspective

On the last day of my French class our professor played Edith Piaf’s “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien,” which translates to “No, I regret nothing.” I found the song extremely fitting for the occasion. After four weeks of taking French lessons, I was able to communicate over a baguette and a spread of different cheeses with my French teacher, a woman who only weeks before had spoken to me directly, and I, having little understanding of what she was saying, could respond only with, “Je ne comprends pas.” I was placed into a higher level of French than I probably should have been in, making the class challenging and unforgiving at times since many of my classmates were better prepared for the course.

And yet, I triumphed. I studied my derriére off during the following weeks, and on the last day when we all compared our cultural differences (in French) while enjoying our picnic, I felt accomplished. I had no regrets about staying in my course or challenging myself instead of taking an easier road, because it gave me the opportunity to really communicate with the French. This song, these final goodbyes to my French teacher and classmates, made me think about my expectations walking into this experience and how much I had changed.

When I left for Paris, I had the wild, albeit common, expectation that I would adapt myself to become the Parisian. Women in Paris are celebrated for their grace, beauty and charm. They are knowledgeable about art and culture, are elusive and seductive, and self-assured without seeming pompous. Paris is regarded for its delicious food, art and cultural offerings and its romanticism. So yes, I walked into this experience hoping to throw myself into the Parisian’s way of life, and ultimately, leave possessing some of these qualities. Instead, I find myself leaving with an altered understanding of the Parisian’s way of life, and of Paris itself. While Paris maintains as one of the most beautiful places I have lived, it is not the grand-all, be all for me. I know many people will disagree, especially expatriates who moved here with similar expectations, and found what they were looking for. For me, however, Paris is a dichotomy of beauty juxtaposed with harsh realities. If you are looking for the glamorous experience, (eating macarons at Ladurée, shopping at the Chanel boutique where Coco Chanel’s apartment is only a glance up, dining on room service and picking out the perfect “Parisian” outfit) you can find it—along with its hefty price tag and limited stay. Experiencing Paris as a student offers a different experience: living on the outskirts of the city, overheating from the lack of air conditioning, taking the metro with little room to move, and going to class.

My experience wasn’t what I expected, but I realize now (as a rational person instead of a dreamer) that this is because I wasn’t going to Paris as a tourist. I wasn’t experiencing Paris as a city of glamour and beauty for a few days, but for a few months. And while the beauty and glamour are there, my perception of them ran dry after experiencing some of the not-so-glamorous offerings of Paris.

Yet, despite all of this, I still maintain my original statement regarding my experience. I regret nothing about my time living in Paris. Paris is not just about seduction and glamour; it is so much more than that. It’s a city of dreams, where people come to experience the beauty they feel is lacking in their everyday lives. It is also a city where people have come for refuge or to start their lives anew. Paris is a cultural haven, where art lives and breathes on the streets, through its people, and inside its museums. But there is also art and beauty in knowing the city’s rich past, its political tribulations, and its multicultural makeup. The postcard picture of Paris is deceptive, because it shows what everyone coming to Paris is looking for. The gold details along the Seine and picturesque metro signs are great, but they leave room for disappointment.

Edmund White puts it best when he says, “Flanerie is the best way to impose a personal vision on the palimpsest of Paris. It’s a bit like being a film director who puts together his own take on a place by selecting only those scenes that conform to it…thereby converting this most artificial of cities into something bucolic…” (The Flaneur, 187). Paris is truly a city made up of people making it what they want it to be; their rendition of it all, living amongst other people of many backgrounds who are also living out their own perception of Paris.

I’d like to think that I did not become a bit more Parisian while living in Paris. I think I gained a new perspective on Paris, instead. If I wrote this two weeks ago, when I was feeling under the weather and complaining of heat exhaustion in my “charming” room, I would probably have very few kind words about my experience in Paris. Luckily, I am writing this from London, as I await the arrival of family to return to Paris next week for a few days. I will show them the Paris they are looking for: Ladurée and the Louvre; picnics at the Eiffel Tower and shopping; all of the glitz and glamour imaginable in a short holiday. I’ll keep the true Paris to myself, because it took me  weeks to realize I do love this city, and I don’t want to spoil their Parisian dreams in three days.

Dining at Le Bouillon Chartier

Virginia Woolf once said, “One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.” Taking the words of Woolf into consideration, I was hoping to enrich my Parisian experience by dining at the well-known restaurant, Le Bouillon Chartier. While I can now say that I have eaten at a restaurant that has been around for more than 100 years (which is quite an accomplishment considering the turnover of restaurants in today’s world), I was disappointed with the food and reputed service.

Walking into the dining room, I was overwhelmed with the décor. It was clear I was walking into a space much older in time than most other restaurants in the city just by glancing around; from the tall ceilings and barrel lights to the mahogany crown molding and mosaic-tiled floors. The staff creates a certain ambiance of elegance, as well, with their uniform of black waistcoats and bow ties. However, it turns out I was walking into the hype. With its beautiful setting and a reputation for quality service, I expected an unparalleled experience but left disappointed overall.

I was most impressed with the escargot, a starter I nibbled from the table in delight. The garlic butter sauce accompanied the dish well, and yet, did not seem to overpower the dish itself. While it was not the most amazing escargot I have ever tasted, it was definitely enjoyable and left me excited to try the rest of my food.

For my main meal, I ordered Poulet fermier roti avec frites; a simple roasted chicken with French fries. Overall, the dish was not horrible, but not what I was expecting, either. I imagined succulent, well-seasoned roasted chicken with meat that glided off the bones. Instead, my chicken was more bone than meat, and a bit dry. I have heard many people complain about receiving dark meat when ordering chicken, but after ordering quite a few poulet dishes throughout the month, I was not surprised or disappointed when I cut into my dark meat meal. However, someone I was dining with ordered the same dish and her serving included much more meat than bones, which furthered my dissatisfaction.

I also ordered a side dish of haricot verts, which I was glad about after the chicken. Although they tasted slightly bland to some people, I really enjoyed the green beans. It was a modest dish of warm green beans, with nothing more than salt for seasoning. They were simple, but very tasty and without the pretentiousness of other dishes. I ordered my green beans, and without fail, I enjoyed my green beans.

I was excited to see Coupe Mont Blanc on the menu, as I have seen this dessert at a number of restaurants and patisseries around the city. Each time, the mound of chestnut pulls me in and begs me to order it, but I resist. I thought Le Bouillon Chartier presented the best opportunity to try this dessert. This was the first time the dish looked differently than I had seen it before, but I attribute this to my lack of knowledge about the dessert rather than fault this particular restaurant. Keeping an open mind (since I have nothing to compare the taste to, anyway) I slid my spoon past the heap of freshly whipped cream down to the puree of hazelnut resting at the bottom of the dish. The taste was somewhat bitter, which the whipped cream helped to lighten, but it was the consistency I was least impressed with. I found it to be grainy and slightly uncomfortable on my tongue. I swiped the whipped cream off the top of the dish, and decided to leave the Mont Blanc hazelnut experience for another time.

In retrospect, I was forewarned that the food at Le Bouillon Chartier is simple, not five star dining. It is quite possible that I was expecting far greater food based off of the recommendations and reputation for the restaurant alone. Perhaps the food was not to my liking, but not the worst food I have ever tasted. As I mentioned above, the escargot and green beans were very nice, and my discontent with my dessert stems from the shock of receiving a dish far different from what I was expecting. The chicken, on the other hand, was just not that good.

Lastly, while the wait staff’s outfits are a defining characteristic of the restaurant, the service was not as amazing as I expected. With a reputation for having excellent service, I was looking forward to an “experience.” Our waitress muddled past left elbows and right shoulders to grab plates, and even handed me my dinner plate of hot food instead of placing it on the open space in front of me. I went with a larger group (14 persons), but for a restaurant claiming to have excellent service and basic, but still palatable dishes, I was not impressed. 

Reviewing M.F.K. Fisher's "The Gastronomical Me"

Book Cover Image via NPR

“Paris was everything I had dreamed, the late September when we first went there. It should always be seen, the first time, with the eyes of childhood or of love. I was almost twenty-one, but much younger than girls are now, I think. And I was wrapped in a passionate mist” (49).

The quote above, from M.F.K Fisher’s “The Gastronomical Me,” is one of many from the book that captured my attention. At 21, I epitomize the young woman learning about Paris while living here; I can appreciate (and even empathize) with the idea of ‘the passionate mist’ that takes over during one’s time in Paris. Whether the mist she is referring to is her love affair with Al or the city itself during her first visit, it is true that Paris is a city waiting to captivate the most self-assured and least-willing visitor with its people, art and most importantly to Fisher, its food.

Despite her ongoing love affair with France and the people she encounters, Fisher’s greatest love will always be food. Whether she is tasting an oyster for the first time as an adolescent in boarding school or devouring gin and Beluga caviar in Chexbres’ apartment whilst dressed in her Easter best, food is more than a meal to Fisher.

Food creates the central notion of which all other interactions follow. “The Gastronomical Me” allows the reader into Fisher’s life, not merely through her stories, but by recreating experiences. Throughout the book, the reader is offered glimpses of Fisher’s evolution as an American in France (in addition to extraneous locations) by recounting the joys and lessons that have come from eating meals all over and with many different people.

Whereas in American culture food is a means to an end; the French do not satiate their hunger to keep going, but instead use food as a tool to socialize and reminisce. Fisher learns this early on, and is able to take the reader on a journey of not only her experiences with food, but that of an expatriate setting up life in a foreign country as a local, rather than a tourist.

Although I thoroughly enjoy the way Fisher describes her experiences, I was confused and found the stories difficult to follow, at times, due to her writing style. Fisher speaks as if she were having coffee with friends, her cup filled to the brim with enough café that it can be sipped until every detail is divulged, and yet, the last drop still touches warmly to the tongue. As the reader, I am intrigued until the last word on each page, but like a friend listening to the story of an experience I was not present to witness, I miss some of the details.

This passage, for example, is eloquently stated, but not an easy read at first glance. However, with time and consideration, it is clear that Fisher has a way with words:

“On land, the tuggings of the moons can somewhat safely be ignored by men, and left to the more pliant senses of woman and seeds and an occasional warlock. But at sea even males are victims of the rise and fall, the twice-daily surge of the waters they float on, and the willy-nilly the planetary rhythm stirs them and all the other voyagers” (40).

I recognize that others may find the fluidity in Fisher’s prose more alluring than I did. While it captivated my attention at the start, I had to reread certain passages throughout the book to keep up with what she was saying. Overall, I enjoyed the book despite the aforementioned criticism.

And yet, Fisher said it best in her own words:

“How can I write the love story of a woman I don’t know? There must be more than celebration, more than the skillful plotting of my thoughts” (229).

For me, M.F.K Fisher’s “The Gastronomical Me” sheds light on the experience of a woman who could have easily adapted to French culture at any age. She had the “upper hand” so to speak, in that she recognized from the beginning that she preferred the finer things in life and wanted to enjoy every moment, every bite—a French culture necessity. Moreover, Fisher learned from her friends and family to be decisive about her choices, and from her experiences she picked up the ability to be independent and confident. She was never the tourist, even during her first experience abroad. And yet, her experiences elucidate the expatriate experience. Her tales leave you hoping for more embarrassing anecdotes, another passionate rendezvous, and of course, new experiences with food--since we know that is the root of this love story.

Operetta at Theatre Antoine

Under the musical direction of David Costa, Operetta, performed at Theatre Antoine in Paris, offers an opportunity to witness the blending of theatrical styles, music from different operas, and contrasting fashion styles of the old and new. The aspect of the performance that stands apart, however, is the ability of the vocalists to both act and sing at the same time. Although it is expected in other forms of theatre, this is a special talent considering the amount of technique and breath required to perform an opera; and yet, the vocalists emulate athletes biking and skiing, run around the stage, and move props—all with grace and ease. Despite enjoying the performance thoroughly, I found myself wondering why certain movements were included. For example, in one of the final acts of the performance, it seemed as though there was a lot of head bobbing and an awkward rendition of “the wave,” segregating vocalists depending on vocal range (the altos went up to sing their part, then a group of sopranos would pop up on the other side, etc.). It was interesting at first, considering the stage formed some sort of level system and vocalists would disappear into the set scene. However, it became distracting after a while. This was the exception to the rest of the performance, though.

Unlike musical theatre, operas do not use music to complement dialogue in story lines; rather, they rely on the music and expressions to convey a story. Operetta was traditional in that sense. Yet, it reminded me more of a musical because of all the acting and set/prop changes. This is the beauty of Operetta. It uses well-known songs from operas and accompanies them to modern day situations. From filming a movie, to falling in love, to watching a performance, Operetta gives new meaning to the traditional opera.