On my third night in Washington, my friend Gregg and I ventured out in search of vinyl. Gregg is a seminary student in Alexandria and he and his wife were our hosts. they both love music like I do, so persuading Gregg to join me on this junket wasn't difficult. So, after dinner, we excused ourselves, packed a map and Metro cards, and drove to the Alexandria Metro stop, where we parked Gregg's Jeep and ascended the up escalator to the Metro platform. Finally, a train arrived. After boarding the train heading in the direction of DC - I can't remember which line, yellow or blue - we de-metroed at the Dupont Circle stop and rode one of the country's longest escalators up to the surface.

Even on a Monday night, Dupont Circle is hopping. Once we had oriented ourselves, Gregg and I began our hike north on 18th Street. 18th street is lined with a funky blend of ethnic restaurants, hookah bars, coffee shops and, as it happens at least three record stores. The first record store on my list, Red Onion is closed on Mondays - I knew that - so we kept walking until we reached the basement entrance of Crooked Beat.

Crooked Beat is a tiny basement room that looks and feels like it contains treasures. Although they also carry lots of CDs, records constitute an increasingly large portion of the shelves and their sales. The store is not much to look at, but its walls are lined with records. Some of the special ones are displayed above eye level on a shallow shelf, while most of the small floor plate is filled with bins of records.

Since I'm not interested in new vinyl - yes, I know they sound awesome! - I marched directly to the rear of the store to Crooked Beat's small but well selected Used bins.

It was 8pm. The store closed at 9. With little time to spare, I began rifling though the bins in the time honored ritual of the inveterate record shopper. While Gregg explored the jazz section, I flipped through rock. Behind me another patron bantered with a staff member about Gil Scott Heron, and other patrons came and went. I had an hour and I was in a zone. What treasures awaited me in these bins?

The first record that I pulled was called "There's No Hole in My Soul" by The Barry Goldberg Reunion. Barry Goldberg, I remembered, was one of the founders of The Electric Flag, one of my favorite blues rock bands of the 60s. This could be good.

A blogger named Zack Wiesinger recently came across the same record in another shop somewhere and he wrote: