A Night at the Purple Onion - Robert Vogt

On a Friday night my band, the Venoms, is playing at the best dive in town, the underground garage-punk venue the Purple Onion again.

Our last show at this place we had the best spot in the lineup, sandwiched in between two other decent bands. This time we’re dead last, following a band called Phantasy.

The Lugheads, who’ve gotten favorable reviews in Maximum Rock N Roll play a good short set then clear the stage for Phantasy.

“Who’s this Pha-antah-sy,” Vicky, lead guitarist Don’s girlfriend, asks affecting a Ricardo Montalban accent.

“I don’t know,” I answer, “somebody Tom threw in at the last minute.”

The band comes out in leisure suits and Greg Brady wigs sounding like a Terry Gibb nightmare. This would be great for a laugh any other night but not when we are playing last. And just as I had feared, the lovers of rock n roll begin to trickle out unable to stomach the novelty act.

“Are these guys lame or what?” our drummer Wes asks, sticking it out through the torturous set.

I get antsy when the forty-five minute mark passes. They just keep playing and playing.

After they’ve been playing for an hour Don is yelling, “Why don’t you guys get off the fucking stage?!” But they continue churning out wannabe seventies hits one after another.

Finally, Purple Onion manager Tom Guido steps in to let these guys know that they will be doing just one more song. They finish that song and immediately jump into another.

“Fuck you…! Fuck you!” A Maximum Rock N Roll writer screams then throws a beer can at the stage. I grab a bottle of liquid soap from the bathroom and start squirting it at the polyester wearing fucks. Wes jumps on the stage, grabs the singer, and pulls him out to the dance floor.

Cymbals fly, clothing tears and I find myself pulling Tom Guido from Wes’ grasp. Tom then wades through the mayhem and grabs the microphone screaming, “You guys…! Fuckin’…! You damnit…! God damn fuckin’ faggotarians!”

Things start to settle down, the band packs their equipment while the drummer disputes with me verbally.

“I jammed with Oasis,” he brags.

“Fuckin’ Oasis sucks!” I answer.

Phantasy leaves without getting paid and we begin to set up.

When we are ready to play Don finds that his amp will barely emit a whisper. Don had put a full beer atop his Marshall as it sat on the stage warming. While we tuned and set levels the amp had been jostled just a bit spilling beer down the back and inside, cracking a tube.

“Well that’s it we’re not playin’,” Don announces to the few people remaining.

“Oh come on play a couple songs!” yells Bruce Rohrs, the Maximum Rock N Roll writer.

“Yeah, play a little!” KUSF radio’s Carolyn Keddy seconds the plea.

We give in and limp through a few songs. Don does the front-man thing singing without his guitar. He does occasional acrobatic or Elvis karate type moves holding the mike-stand at arm’s length.

Photo courtesy of sfgate.com