I feel bad for taking my wife to this show. She’s as big of a music fan as I am; when we met in Seattle, she worked at the greatest record store of all time, Fallout Records, and her record collection practically dwarfs mine in both size and coolness. Yet she’s not a “record collector” like myself. I’m stupid over records; I will rush over to Amoeba whenever my buddy Rob text messages me about the arrival of a new release. I did that last weekend with the new Unnatural Helpers album, a CD release that only the coolest of the Seattle ex-patriots in the Bay Area would know about. But I couldn’t take the risk of someone buying it out and ran to Amoeba immediately.