Camp Nowhere sits perched on top of a hill in the U-District, facing directly across Seventh Avenue Northeast and down onto Interstate-5 below.

The craftsman-style house is partially built into the hillside, with a large basement that can be accessed either through a series of barn-style doors on the hill’s steepest side. Visitors walk from the upstairs kitchen down a steep, narrow set of stairs through a dirty-laundry filled hallway into a storage room and down another short flight of stairs.

With walls painted bright orange, large PA speakers set up on one side of the room and the words “Camp Nowhere” painted in big black letters on one of the ceiling support beams, it is readily apparent that the Camp Nowhere basement is not used for storing junk or non-perishable goods.

“We have shows y’know, bands, about four times a month in the basement,” said house resident Parker Lautenslege. “We have a pretty cool community here that comes out to support music. It’s just something that’s different, an alternative.”

Often referred to as Do-It-Yourself (DIY), Lautenslege’s sentiment is nothing new. DIY came into existence as an expression and ideology in the ‘80s with the rise of alternative and punk music; it has been a sub-cultural institution ever since.

In his book, Our Band Could Be Your Life, rock critic Michael Azerrad described DIY as, “A punk ethos, not a circumscribed musical style. It was about more than just starting a band, it was about starting a label, putting on shows, touring in a van, putting out your own record; it was about taking control.”

Azerrad said it was a pop-music climate that emphasized corporatization of music, executive boardroom control over what is released and the good-natured rebellious spirit of indie-rock which led to the germination of a movement that is still valid today.

“[Doing DIY shows] is fulfilling because it has nothing to do with TV or billboards or shopping. It’s a way to be entertained, have fun and get ideas across without using typical corporate devices. Nobody is marketing to you or trying to sell you shit,” Lautenslege said, seated on a couch in Camp Nowhere’s living room.

Camp Nowhere resident Alex Hiller said residents do not charge for shows, instead soliciting donations for touring bands by hassling and mean-mugging people into donating.

Hiller said strictly collecting donations is a tactic that prevents the house from being viewed as a legitimate, money-making venue in the eyes of the police.

When queried about noise ordinance violations and neighbor complaints from loud bands, Lautenslege said Camp Nowhere hadn’t had any real issues, part of which he attributed to a policy of not allowing drugs or alcohol to be consumed during shows.

“A couple of years ago we had some loud bands playing, and when they finished, we opened the big barn doors. Right outside was a cop with all his lights on. We just slammed the doors before he could see anything and cancelled the rest of the show.”

The S.S. Marie Antoinette is all too familiar with the pitfalls that have affected many all-ages venues and alternative performance spaces in Seattle.

Located at the southern end of Lake Union along Westlake Avenue, the building was a yacht warehouse until the mid-‘70s when fiberglass technology eliminated the need for storing boats. Lying mostly dormant and unused throughout the late ‘70s and ‘80s, the building was named the S.S. Marie Antoinette and re-inhabited as a co-operative art space seven years ago.

The space saw its fair share of tenants renting art studios and cheap crash pads during the past seven years, but it wasn’t until the winter of 2005 — under the guidance of Mike E. Harp and Malakai Staahl — that the Antoinette started having shows.

Harp said a dearth of good places in the city for kids to let off steam and a sense of public and duty led to their decision to host live music.

“The [Seattle] city government is ridiculous. On one hand they talk about supporting local artists and musicians, but at the same time they propose legislation that restricts kids under 21 from seeing shows. They did it before with the teen dance ordinance, and they are trying to do it again with new liquor board rules,” Harp said.

In light of such efforts by Seattle city officials, Harp spoke of the importance of alternative, grassroots spaces to fill the void in the music and arts scene.

Unfortunately for the Antoinette, the lack of legitimacy provided by an unlicensed, established space and the destructive behavior perpetrated by some show-goers ended up leading to the cessation of live music; an ironic end of an idea that set out to make positive change in the community.

Harp grew weary when describing the neighborhood complaints and mounting police scrutiny that lead to the Antoinette closing its doors to music this past fall.

Starting last June with an anonymous tip, Seattle code enforcement officers paid a visit to follow up on a complaint about debris accumulating behind the building.

“Basically the accusations were bogus and the code enforcement officers were in agreement with us, but we knew then and there that someone was out to get us,” Harp said.

The attention of authorities was gained again in July when police showed up following a complaint, forcing an acoustic show to be cancelled and moved to a private residence.

Throughout the month of August — a period Harp described as the Antoinette’s pinnacle of doing shows — police attention increased, and squad cars frequently patrolled the area while shows were going on.

The scrutiny came to a head during a show on Aug. 15, when members of a band slated to play later that evening threw a string of M-‘80s underneath a luxury car parked across the street in a restaurant parking lot. Police were summoned immediately, and the show was cancelled. After the incident, under mounting pressure from the police, the restaurant across the street and other neighbors, the S.S. Marie Antoinette decided to call it a day by closing its doors to live music.

Harp acknowledged the hard lessons learned and said he has shared his experiences with other DIY places, including Camp Nowhere, in order to prevent similar problems from happening again.

“It sucks, but it was a learning lesson. Basically I think we got too big and popular. We promoted too much, made flyers and had show listings in The Stranger. Of course those [people] throwing M-‘80s under were the final straw,” Harp said.

Reach reporter Brian Slodysko at development@thedaily.washington.edu.