Amoeba Music Field Research

One week’s time. Afternoons, evenings, whenever people are about, really. That’s what I do – observe people. Where? Amoeba Music, Telegraph Ave, Berkeley, CA. Stepping foot in that store is like Christmas…for creepers. That’s me, or rather, what I’ve become of late. Recording conversations is gold, but interacting with my subject matter is jackpot. In the few days that I have been going to Amoeba, I have had somewhat curious interactions, made mild friends, and am expected back there, I guess, to maintain a rapport.

The first day of my research was the most awkward. Sitting on a stool in the center of the store, I at first tended to soak up my surroundings. I noted two songs playing simultaneously: some 1970s rock song sounding from the north side, and jazz sax resonating from the south side. This Amoeba Music is partitioned into two specific rooms, connected by a ramp, or alternately, three lone steps, just east of the center-store information desk. The clientele in each room represent at least two distinct cultures. The north room, containing CD’s and LP’s from the genres rock, electronica, experimental, hip-hop, soul, oldies, punk, and hardcore, as well as every kind of movie and TV DVD imaginable draws a rather indie, hippie, punk, alternative crowd. The south side, containing jazz, world music, reggae, gospel, avant garde composers, and opera attracts a completely different culture of customers: old people…among the sporadic, sophisticated customers, often African American, who wish to soak up the more wordly aspects of their culture, as opposed to the graffitied hip-hop/soul region of the

north side, adorned with posters of famous African Americans from Hendrix to Obama to Snoop Dog to Aaliyah.

I felt highly conspicuous with my computer on my lap, staring at people, obviously listening, and being almost a total creep, save the academic pursuit of this field research. I was able to categorize the customers and employees into general stereotypes. Most of these characters were men. In an interview, the owner of Ameoba, Karen Pearson, noted the prevalence of men over women in music stores. Perhaps most common for the 20s-30s age group is your modern indie male – plaid shirt, sometimes open over an Urban Outfitters type of graphic tee; skinny, often black, jeans; some type of converse shoe; and often, rectangular, black, thick-rimmed glasses. For the next age group, 40s, the typical male is often quite ordinary and rather unremarkable: regular, uncontrived jeans or

khakis; leather shoes; button-up shirt with jacket; at least slightly overweight; stubbly beard; grey hair poking though; and most often, a friendly face. These types liked to smile at me. Sometimes they had glasses, and occasionally,they were bald, trying to pull off some kind of Bruce Willis look. The final age group is 50s and 60s. These men are of the hippie generation. Aside from those who never grew out of the 70s/80s punk rock look (leather, piercings, faded black t-shirt, long hair, tattoos), others had at least moderately long grey hair, friendly faces, faded jeans, sometimes a beard, faded t-shirt or casual collared shirt, and sneakers. Such is the category of which the manager is a part.

He is the second person with whom I had interacted…on two occasions. The first was when he just wanted to know what I was up to “So I’ll be seeing more of you?” he asked. I nodded and proceeded to tell him that I was now taking notes on the guy next to me: a scruffy, beer-bellied, middle-aged man sampling CD’s, using the headphones provided by Amoeba. There was another boy, 20s or college age, who I found cute. Plaid shirt; long, flippy, light brown hair; nice face; square jaw. When I mentioned to the manager that I was now taking notes onthe “man to my right” (the older man), the cute guy looked over. He was also to my right. I hope he didn’t think I was referring to him…

During my second encounter with the manager, he was telling a friend/customer

about me. He thinks this project is fantastic and is flattered that I chose Amoeba. The woman was also highly enthusiastic. She was a fat, 50s-aged woman, married to a newspaper editor/Cal grad. When her husband returned from searching for LP’s, for he was now holding a Dire Straits album, among two others, he talked to me about living in LA, my rhetoric assignment, his editing job for the Contra Costa newspaper, and Cal in general. He was a friendly, grey-haired man with a moustache and beer belly. Most interesting to me was that the woman called to my attention what she found to be most annoying about being in Amoeba: the clicking noise of all the CD’s being clanged together as people search for specific albums. That had never even occurred to me, and the manager said he failed to notice anymore. Regardless, the “sound effects” have not done much to keep out many other interesting characters I have met during my field research.

Not all the dialog I heard was audible. “Shit, I didn’t know you had called me back…aaawww…[something about a performance.] Awful. So bad.” [walks away] – A man with square, indie glasses; a faded, black shirt; short hair; stubbly beard; sideburns; and faded jeans….he works here. He was just on his cell phone as he was taping up a light yellow poster of “Exene Cervenka: somewhere gone,” advertising a live show for “Saturday, November 7 @ 2 pm!!!” Amoeba is known for being a venue for local bands to perform; an article once stated, “retailers can talk all they want about supporting unsigned indpendent acts, but mega-retailer Amoeba Music…is putting its money where its mouth is.” Meanwhile, I was trying to figure out the context of his conversation, but I was interrupted.

My first encounter was with Danny. 510-357-2667 – this he gave me in lieu of the business card he failed to produce. Graying, brown hair pulled back into a pony tail, faded, psychedelic design t-shirt, light blue jeans, he fit into the third category of aging hippies. His life occupation is bee keeping, but his profession is landscaping. We got into a philosophical discussion about his personal experience with bee keeping, so close to nature, and how spiritual it can be if not done solely for profits. He sells products such as honeycomb, jars of honey, and honey sticks in multiple flavors. We established our commonality: neither of us is afraid of bees.

The most resonating interaction, and prolonged, was with Patrick. Tall, thin, short, dull brown hair, stubbly cheeks, decent. As I was taking pictures, Patrick was organizing LP’s. Bizarre actions in public are a sure way to make friends. He started talking to me, first about what I was doing, then about LP’s versus iPods, and how studies show that people prefer the white noise of LP’s to the sterility of today’s MP3 players; he then, not so subtly, admitted that he thought I was cute. “How old are you?” I asked. “Way older than you want to know,” he replied. He looked as if he’s minimum 26, tops 36. I told him I was a freshman. “Yea, I figured you were about 19 years old,” he said to me. “18,” I corrected him. Out of politeness and intrigue, I continued talking with him. He went to my high school’s rival; we both love LA’s Amoeba on Sunset Blvd; and both have a knack for organization. He slipped into the conversation his work schedule, so I’d know when to come in and see him. It turns out the next time I saw him was by accident, not because I purposely went when he said he’d be there.

On another occasion, I was sitting in the southwestern most corner of the north room. Patrick was about 20 feet away, organizing LP’s again. He walked over to say hi; when I asked, he told me the Stone Roses were playing from the speakers. A man with a Hitler moustache and black hair entered the scene. He was “Adolf Hipster” for Halloween and still hadn’t shaved the moustache. He said he was wearing a pink shirt on Halloween, also. Patrick said to him,“man, you still haven’t shaved,” in a friendly, making fun of him way. Then Patrick told me to record this guy in my notes. He works here. He asked me if I had seen these two really nerdy, white junior high kids who always come into the hip-hop/rap section and ask each other if they’ve heard the latest stuff. He did a really funny impression of them...true nerds

Well night came. I often tried not to go too late so as not to walk back down telegraph, alone, with a computer in my bag. Luckily, I was able to witness Amoeba’s evening mystique. Rich with indie enthusiasm, the staff never seemed irritated on the job. “There’s a lot of cool people [who work] here,” the owner once remarked. It’s true. This Amoeba closes relatively early, allowing its employees a decent nightlife. Excitement radiates, but I get tired and need to finish up my observations. I wave a friendly goodbye to the familiar faces and peace out of the warm, comfortable setting into a chilly Berkeley night.

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http://www.amoeba.com/store-locations/index.html