2008 Woodie Awards
We Are More Than Paramecia
Kai Allen
Issue date: 3/18/08 Section: Viewpoints
An amoeba, according to the average online dictionary definition, is a one-celled aquatic or parasitic protozoa of the genus Amoeba, having no definite form and containing one or more nuclei surrounded by a flexible outer membrane. In comparison to the beams of pink neon on the corner of Sunset and Ivar Avenue, it seems like an odd name for the musical pinnacle of Southern California. Unless you actually forge the trafficked masses of the 110 and get to that web of fluorescence and billboards that is Hollywood's Amoeba Music. Then the whole amoeba thing makes a lot of sense, doesn't it?
On this particular visit we parked half a block away, decided to screw the meter and bustled towards the sounds of heels clicking and cell phones blaring the melodic tones of Broken Social Scene (you know, the sure signs of your average L.A. hipster). Parched for some taste of young culture in a faux-gold tinged city, a friend and I had decided to drive out to Amoeba- during rush hour- to see a free concert by some innocuous band with a name like Werewolf Tuesday or Vampire Wednesday. Goblin Saturday? Well, something like that. We walked in, flowing gently, slowly within the threads of the be-leathered urban throng. The stage was just out of sight when some punk rocker turned corporate up-and-comer began to herd us away, into a corner at the far side of the store. "We're trying to keep the main aisles clear, so that shoppers can shop," he explained. So that the buyers can buy. And buy. And buy. (Cash registers clanging, oh the sounds of America!)
Despite my best efforts to slither under the racks of the country music section and slip past the tallish neanderthal bearing a laminated name tag, we were stuck in that corner between Garth Brooks and Carrie Underwood. It was crowded and we could barely see the stage but I figured that once the music started, people would move around. It was a matter of moments.
Suddenly, three carbon copies of my fourteen-year-old cousin Henry sauntered onto the stage. The crowd of people clapped their jewelry-laden hands; they waved woven scarves and whipped off their designer shades (at this bright hour of 7:00 p.m.) to grab a glimpse of the band. And without an introduction, the three shaggy-headed pre-pubescents swept into a fast-paced ditty about making a bed. Sure, it wasn't Zeppelin or anything, but it was catchy. My toes were tapping, head bopping slightly left to right, eyes fixed on the three gyrating bodies up on stage. I turned to smile at my friend (also bopping and such) and smiled. She shot me a half smile back so I turned back towards the music and my eyes swept the crowd. And then I understood. Then it all made sense.
On this particular visit we parked half a block away, decided to screw the meter and bustled towards the sounds of heels clicking and cell phones blaring the melodic tones of Broken Social Scene (you know, the sure signs of your average L.A. hipster). Parched for some taste of young culture in a faux-gold tinged city, a friend and I had decided to drive out to Amoeba- during rush hour- to see a free concert by some innocuous band with a name like Werewolf Tuesday or Vampire Wednesday. Goblin Saturday? Well, something like that. We walked in, flowing gently, slowly within the threads of the be-leathered urban throng. The stage was just out of sight when some punk rocker turned corporate up-and-comer began to herd us away, into a corner at the far side of the store. "We're trying to keep the main aisles clear, so that shoppers can shop," he explained. So that the buyers can buy. And buy. And buy. (Cash registers clanging, oh the sounds of America!)
Despite my best efforts to slither under the racks of the country music section and slip past the tallish neanderthal bearing a laminated name tag, we were stuck in that corner between Garth Brooks and Carrie Underwood. It was crowded and we could barely see the stage but I figured that once the music started, people would move around. It was a matter of moments.
Suddenly, three carbon copies of my fourteen-year-old cousin Henry sauntered onto the stage. The crowd of people clapped their jewelry-laden hands; they waved woven scarves and whipped off their designer shades (at this bright hour of 7:00 p.m.) to grab a glimpse of the band. And without an introduction, the three shaggy-headed pre-pubescents swept into a fast-paced ditty about making a bed. Sure, it wasn't Zeppelin or anything, but it was catchy. My toes were tapping, head bopping slightly left to right, eyes fixed on the three gyrating bodies up on stage. I turned to smile at my friend (also bopping and such) and smiled. She shot me a half smile back so I turned back towards the music and my eyes swept the crowd. And then I understood. Then it all made sense.
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