Dirk Dirksen died last week. Most people have no idea who he was. But for anyone playing music on the San Francisco club scene of the late '70s, he was someone to be tolerated and (much later) greatly appreciated. Dirksen was the impresario of the Mabuhay Gardens on Brodway in North Beach, the city's first punk rock palace. It was a real flea pit. It stunk of stale beer and burnt popcorn. I had a bunch of very good times there over the years.

Dirk, a squat man with a moustache who looked like he was born looking 50 years old, introduced (and booked) the acts. One night he brought on stage a band called the Offs. In a scene of mommy's boys, ex-Grateful Dead fanciers and trust-fund Eurotrash, the Offs were the real thing. Even their guitars had track marks. They were nice guys but they lived it. One or two are even still alive today.

Anyway, Dirksen ambled on stage: "OK, here they are. But we're going to have to wait a while because the Offs are still upstairs waiting for the drugs to take effect." And so on. Dirk was very funny.

At the end of the night, he'd clear the joint with a barrage of insults: "Ok, scum, go back to the streets, crawl back to gutters. Start the tape." And the soundman would hit a button and the sobering, syrupy treacle of Mantovani would begin.

The place cleared out.

Dirksen was a character.