A Lesson in Camping Etiquette From the Stringband Jamboree

Friday night, as planned, we drove up to Bellingham for the 6th Annual Subdued Stringband Jamboree--something we've never experienced before, and about which we were somewhat excited. Having spent last weekend revelling in the Americana down in Portland, maybe our expectations were a little high.

To be fair, the Jamboree itself wasn't bad. By the time we cut through the traffic and filled our bellies, we managed to see three artists, and two of them were really good. The first, Rachel Ries, is who we were most excited about. Her smooth, somewhat airy vocals don't sound unlike many other airy-voiced chanteuses, but her lyrics are lovely enough to set her apart, and sweet enough to aptly complement a chilly evening in a dark field upstate. (Ok if we call it that?)

Later came Yogoman Burning Band. Definitely not anything anywhere near what anyone could possibly consider a "stringband," they lit into their jam-ska set whole hog. Drummer in front, silly horn player guys in back, one guy with a tambourine, a chick on the bass. They sang songs about dragon busses and taking time to dance. We thought we were going to a bluegrass festival, but that didn't mean we couldn't bounce around to the Burning Band, regardless of whether they made any sense in the line-up.

It had been a long week, we were feeling a little under the weather, thought it'd be nice to doze off with the low-key picking sessions that go on until the wee hours at all these folkie festivals, jamming in the background. Little did we know we'd parked ourselves next to the most inconsiderate camping neighbors ever to roam the earth.

We've been to our fair share of music festivals, have participated in many a late-night picking party, have fallen asleep in our tent despite some of the more lively song circles going on nearby. These are all things we hold near and dear to our heart. But when it's 3 AM and our neighbors are singing so loud, it's like they're trying to reach the person in the last row of the balcony at Wembley Stadium without a microphone, in the highest-pitched chorus of emphasis ever to warble through the fields of podunk, we have to wrestle with every ounce of decency to not yell, "shush!"

It wasn't even just the singing, because at least they were songs Seattlest really digs. It was the whooping, hollering and applauding afterwards that got to us. The loud non-music with which they so carelessly colored the entire freaking night, as if they alone were out in the middle of the woods, and nobody anywhere within earshot could possibly think that 3:00 in the morning might be a good time to try to get some sleep.

Then, at the asscrack of dawn, well before anyone in their right mind would want to wake after having been kept up so late, up they rose, proclaiming their loud loudness at the noise level of a bullhorn. At this point, we were thinking maybe it's not that they're the most inconsiderate camping neighbors ever. Maybe they're just oblivious to the fact that their voices carry so far. We resigned and got up, packed the tent and got the hell out of dodge.

photo courtesy Flickr user Paul Russell