Each fall, as the winds pick up and leaf smush starts narrowing bike paths, the hipster-industrial-fishing hamlet of Ballard, all the way out on Seattle’s upper west side, takes on additional responsibilities as one of the world’s more underappreciated musical arenas.

A raft of sea lions, well over a hundred plumpers still huffin’ from a swim that started in California, lumbers onto a breakwall at the foot of Sunset Hill. Once in position, they start hollerin’ at the top of their 250 horsepower lungs like there’s no tomorrow. Belting out one single a capella number for half a year straight, with no intermissions. For the hill-dwellers, close enough to hear through closed windows, this is the house music of our winters. 

And then all of a sudden, on an otherwise beautiful spring day, they’re just gone. All 80,000 pounds of them or what ever it was this time. Poof. Not hard to see around the neighborhood who has noticed, something important has been unplugged for my part of the crowd. Now what are we supposed to do?

Sad, but we are so lucky. Eight billion people on the planet never get the smallest earful of this, victims of geography and the limitations of sound travel.

I’m happy to report that these problems have been solved.

FAQ