"We cater to the lifestyle of the music geek," a clerk said on a recent visit to the Electric Fetus. Absolutely true. As you walk in, you're greeted by the smell of incense (warning: this might trigger flashbacks in those born before this date in 1970) that once wafted through the headshops of yore. The first music you see after passing through the pipes and posters is what the geeks seek most: new releases. Hundreds of 'em. Add those to the catalog discs filling the bins and you've got more than 40,000 recordings to browse. The staff is less standoffish and überhip than at most stores; they'll answer questions about obscurities by long-gone French cult favorite Jacques Brel as thoroughly as they will obvious queries about old-skool's Peanut Butter Wolf. And if that ain't lovin' the music geek, then God didn't make little green apples and it don't snow in Minneapolis in the wintertime.