It's a music retail ghost town, yes. We don't need to be reminded. Those were our jobs, and our expense accounts, and our backstage passes, that vanished along with the neighborhood record stores. Gone are Aron's, Sea Level and Tower, ashes to ashes, funk to funky. Last year the Virgin on Sunset bit the dust. It adds up, you know? Therefore: Amoeba of our heart. Yes, some have grumbled that the arrival of Amoeba nearly seven years ago was the big, brass nail that sealed the L.A. retail coffin because it sucked up so much business that our littler compadres couldn't possibly compete. But Amoeba drew the freaks because Amoeba knows its shit, and stocks it, and recommends it, and plays it. Walk in and it looks like one big mess. Start spending time there, though, and you begin to see the order, and realize that Amoeba's not one big-ass store but at least eight (nine? 10? 11?) little stores. A man could get lost in its international section. Not just the Best of Ethiopiques, but all 24 volumes. Not just Brazilian classics, but Living Is Hard: West African Music in Britain, 1927-1929 (some of the most inspiring music you'll ever hear, btw). A dance shop with Villalobos white labels; a thick house section, ditto the hip-hop stacks. A punk shop. Classical and opera. Oh, the reggae vinyl, and the rock vinyl! The best soundtrack store in the country. And upstairs! Upstairs the DVDs! Don't get us started. A whole other celebration. It's downstairs we honor here. Amoeba: flip flip flip, snag, examine, caress, yoink!, play, bond, dance, fuck, nap, repeat.