Skip to main contentStop, collaborate and listen: If Vanilla Ice annoys your neighbor, but his beats don't violate city decibel limits, does it still warrant a fine?
This dispute coming soon to Multnomah County Circuit Court began about 10 pm on a Friday last September when Portland police officer Christopher Verbout responded to a call at Paula English's home on Northeast 19th Avenue.
Even through the closed windows of English's home, Verbout could hear Vanilla Ice's obnoxious 1990 hit, "Ice Ice Baby," coming from a wedding party next door at the Acadian Ballroom.
Verbout asked the ballroom manager to turn it down. English called police again later that night, but the party had ended by the time Verbout returned, according to the officer's report.
A month later, the ballroom's owners, Eric and Ronda Barton, received a $300 noise citation from the city.
The Bartons, who are active in the Alberta Street Business Association, chose to appeal the citation issued by the Bureau of Development Services. An administrative hearings officer ruled against them in January, and they're now taking the city to court. A hearing is expected next month.
James B. Lee, a retired physicist specializing in room acoustics, is helping the Bartons with their case. He was part of a group in the early 1970s that lobbied the City Council to include an objective measure of sound volume—the decibel scale—into the city's noise ordinance.
And he has been expecting a case like this for 35 years. Most people don't fight the rap. "I'm surprised it took so long," says Lee, who happens to have placed sixth out of 13 candidates in the May mayoral race.
The city ordinance says that from 7 a.m. to 10 p.m., 60 decibels—about the volume of a normal conversation—is allowed in residential zones, as measured anywhere along the property line. At night, the allowed volume drops to 55 decibels—which the city compares to the sound of a small air conditioner at a distance of six feet.
Separately, the code prohibits amplified sounds that are "plainly audible within any dwelling unit which is not the source of sound"—a more subjective measure.
Which brings us to the essence of the Bartons' argument: They have their own decibel meter at the Acadian Ballroom. A city code enforcement officer actually helped them calibrate it back in 2006. The night of the "Ice Ice Baby" incident, the meter showed the music was at 55 decibels on the property line with English's house—within code.
(Barton says Verbout—who is on vacation and couldn't be reached for comment—saw the meter. If so, he didn't put that in his report.)
The Bartons argue that their decibel reading should trump the officer's ears. Otherwise, why did the Council bother to write the scientific measure in the code?
One might think city noise control officer Paul van Orden would side with the meter. But van Orden, also on vacation, convinced a city hearings officer that "the human ear is more sensitive to determining noise levels than the electronic equipment."
Lee is firmly on the side of electronic quantification. "You can't expect beat officers to be experts on sound pressure meters. That's not realistic," he says.
If the Bartons wind up losing, Eric Barton fears additional fines could put him out of business. After the third offense, each noise violation can bring a $5,000 fine. "We've got a business that needs to be loud, and we need to be as loud as we legally can be," he says.
Or as Vanilla Ice warbled, "Dance go rush to the speaker that booms…if there was a problem, yo I'll solve it."
City code forbids "repetitive barking, whining, screeching, howling, braying or other like sounds" lasting 10 minutes continuously or over 30 minutes intermittently. Be sure the couple upstairs knows this.
WWeek 2015