Anyone who tells you that malls are dead hasn’t been to the the Glendale Galleria. At 4 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon in early 2026, the scene looks as it might have at the same time of day some thirty years prior. Kids outnumber adults, with the high school crowd ambling past Journeys and Banana Republic in pairs and trios, while the few grown-ups alternate between sifting through sales racks at JC Penney and gossiping over Coffee Bean.
Glendale Galleria opened in 1976 and served as a beacon of LA mall culture through the earliest years of the new millennium. It’s where Panda Express became a fast food staple and where the first Disney Store appeared. For the past two decades, though, the Galleria’s reputation has been overshadowed by the neighboring Americana at Brand, Rick Caruso’s exercise in hyperrealism that looks like a cross between Disneyland’s Main Street and the Las Vegas Strip. The Americana has a trolley *and* a fountain show, plus a bunch of stores that only the Kardashian Klass can afford. It’s LA at its most aspirational. Glendale Galleria has Hot Dog on a Stick and Vans. This is LA at its most real.
Technically, I’ve been coming to the Galleria since birth. It’s the place where my mom used to push me around in a stroller. My first actual memory of it, though, came a handful of years later, well after my family moved from nearby Burbank to far-off Northridge, when my mom took us to a Barbie exhibition at the mall. It was magical, one of those days that exists in my memory like childhood trips to amusement parks and our sole family vacation, where I have to ask my mom, “That really happened, right?”
These days, Glendale Galleria is my go-to mall. It’s just a single, fairly short bus ride from downtown, so I’ll pop in if I want to stop by Lush or can’t find the jeans I want downtown, both of which were the case on this particular Thursday afternoon.
The In-n-Out right outside the Galleria is packed, which is always the case. The Bloomingdale’s where I enter isn’t, which I’m fairly certainly is also typical. There are a few people milling about the department store, but it’s also not representative of the rest of the mall. Some might say that’s a sign of the times— who has the budget for Balenciaga handbags and Tom Ford perfume right now? Or ever? — but, from my experience as a ‘90s teen mallrat, that’s also just how most malls are. You have what we’ll call the Prestige Wing that surrounds the highest-end anchor store in the complex. People might enter through that posh department store for the sake of appearances, but don’t stick around long because even browsing a Helmut Lang sale rack is super intimidating. So you quickly wander the pathways towards the center of the mall, where you’ll find the bulk of shops that are in your actual price range.
Before I exit the Prestige Wing, though, I pop into Benetton. Yes, Benetton still exists! The Glendale Galleria outpost has been open for less than a year and, today, I’m the only non-employee in the store. The ad campaigns that made it a lightning rod for controversy during its heyday are long gone, but the clothing line retains a similar vibe to the 1990s. There are lots of bright colors, chunky knits and horizontal stripes in the store. I sneak peeks at the price tags. Much like the 1990s, I still can only afford the clearance rack. And, because some things are just inevitable, nothing on the clearance rack in my style is in my size. Eh, I’m supposed to be shopping for jeans, anyway.
I wander around the mall on a search for jeans that will end in failure, mostly because buy-one-get-one-half-off is not a deal. Crappy sales aside, I feel like I’m slipping into a time warp. It’s not just that the afterschool crowd is out en masse, but that they look like ‘90s teens. Jeans, flannel and hoodies abound and there are no cell phones in sight. I start to feel weird the few times I pull out my own.
But some things have changed since the mall heyday, like the music. I don’t mean the specific songs, but the soundtracks inside the stores. This is actually my general gripe with our overly-sanitized, corporate-blah environments. Back in the ‘90s, the music inside a store was part of its identity. The shops that played Enya did not cater to the same clientele as the ones that played Mariah Carey and neither of those would attract the same customers as the stores that bumped Armand Van Helden and Todd Terry remixes. Meanwhile, in the common areas, you might hear actual muzak. Today, virtually anywhere you go, you’ll hear and interchangeable mix of inoffensive pop songs that sound familiar, but not distinctive enough to be memorable. There was only one spot in the entire mall where the music stood out and that was in a Valentine’s Day sale section at JC Penny, where I heard The Cardigans “Lovefool” and Disclosure “Latch,” and immediately recognized the music as part of the holiday theme.
That probably points to the bigger change between the 20th and 21st centuries. Most IRL stores don’t have identities anymore. Maybe that’s what happens when seemingly everything has been swallowed up by mega-corporations and private equity, when businesses are chasing algorithms and social media reach and have had the charm consulted out of them. You end up with a bunch of places selling variations of fast fashion with looks that are on trend- kinda, sorta- but lack any kind of distinction. Take away the logos and the designer clothes in Bloomingdales are virtually interchangeable with what’s in Zara.
It’s not a surprise that one of the few stores with a strong identity is the one with no social media presence. TBH, I couldn’t tell you where exactly Lush is located, I just know that I’m nearby when I catch a whiff of the sugar-and-spice aroma that envelopes the skin care emporium. In December, I bought a piece of the watermelon bar, a fundraiser benefitting medical services for people who lost limbs in Gaza, as a Christmas gift. Now, I wanted one for myself. Unfortunately, they were sold out. I browse the shelves filled with bathbombs, a mix of pastel, tie-dye balls, hot pink hearts and strawberries and characters like Paddington, Scooby-Doo and the Minions. The mix of colors, textures and smells inside the store is intoxicating. It’s no wonder that it always seems busy. Somewhere in the midst of this sensory overload, I come across the Sticky Dates scrub. It really did smell like dates! A salesperson asks if I want to try some and scrubs up my hand. I’m impressed and get that along with the Sticky Dates lotion.
I’ve spent far too much time in the mall and, as I make my exit, I start to wonder if its true that malls were ever dead. I’ve read that so many times, but, tbh, I don’t know if that’s ever been true across the board. It’s definitely not true at the Galleria.
Liz O. is an L.A.-based writer and DJ. Follow on Instagram or sign up for the weekly, Beatique newsletter for updates on new stories and gigs.
Listen to Beatique, February 2026, featuring music from ADULT., Kneecap, The Clash, The Cramps and more.
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