Bluegrass in Bellevue

It was a gorgeous room.

The walls were gloss­ily white, wainscoted in pale hardwood. The floor was carpeted in earthtones, a troddable quilt of loops and whorls and geometric flowers that somehow man­aged to look both formal and organic. Huge chandeliers hung from the ceiling, gi­gantic disks of crazed glass from which dangled dozens of white and gold bubbles on wires too thin to see from the floor, as though they were floating beneath the huge lights.

It was stuffed with chairs, black vinyl-covered banquet seats in slightly curved rows that faced a red-curtained stage. The stage lights were on, but the stage was empty between the performances of two bands. People were surging out, but even more funneled in, flashing orange wristbands at the volunteers manning the doors.

As I sat in a deserted sec­tion of seats, saving a few for the adults in my group, I glanced down at my own bracelet. I had been wear­ing it for forty-eight hours straight, and the black letters were beginning to rub off, especially the tops of the G, R. and A in "Wintergrass". The semi-mythical Shangri- la of bluegrass picking in the Northwest, this was the venue I'd been hearing about ever since I picked up the mandolin.

And here I was.

This was the Grand Ball­room of the Hyatt Regency in Bellevue, the nicest hotel I'd ever seen. The rooms weren't that exceptional in terms of content - this was a business hotel, after all, not a resort - but they were comfortable and very, very clean. A porter opened my car door and welcomed me to the hotel, bellhops took our luggage to the ninth floor, and housekeeping de­livered the extra towels we requested. The lobby was enormous - two stories tall, with huge pots of towering bamboo stalks shading clus­ters of couches and a glass rotunda letting in what little sunlight the Puget Sound area receives in February. Fountains gurgled by the check-in counter, and gently twisting staircases climbed to the upper floors.

An odd place for a festi­val celebrating what is gen­erally considered a hillbilly genre, but the Regency's been hosting Wintergrass for several years now. The juxtaposition makes for priceless photo ops - a glass-ceilinged elevator with a crystal chandelier packed with a dozen beard­ed men toting beat-up banjo cases, for example.

Workshops teaching ev­erything from songwriting to "jam survival" to Brazil­ian Forro dancing take place in conference rooms, ball­rooms, and the hotel's leath­er soaked auditorium. Jam sessions take place, well, everywhere - in stairwells, in vacant vendor stalls, in the middle of hallways, and occasionally on elevators and escalators.

And - back to the empty ballroom - here comes the rest of the group. There are dozens of concerts here all weekend, and this is one of four or five we'll end up attending just tonight. It's a band called the Cleverlys, who are supposed to be as funny as they are talented. (Hindsight note: Yes, they were. Look them up; you won't be disappointed.)

We sat crisscross in the carpeted space between the front row and the stage. At any other event, we would've been in trouble, but this is bluegrass, and bluegrassers are some of the most easygoing people you'll ever meet.

Besides, bluegrass isn't the sort of music meant for concert halls and straight- backed chairs. It just sounds better from the floor.