'Thees Ees Zee Reel Shit!'

JOHN DOE AND EXENE CERVENKA, X

Life's too fast Claude Bessy

explosive laugh

you had it

you had it all

and showed us all that

we were bigger and better

than we really were

like French working class

one last cigaret for you

tonight

love again

forever

goodbye

KRISTINE McKENNA, WRITER

It's amazing to realize that Claude Bessy hadn't set foot in L.A. for 19 years yet he remained so vividly alive to all of us who knew him here; but then Claude wasn't the sort of person you forget. Claude was hungry for the entire spectacle of life, the ugly parts, too, and he demanded that the truth be told loud and clear for all to hear. He demanded anything else that might be available, too, and free beer was always welcome. Claude was trustworthy because he cheerfully declared himself to be untrustworthy the moment you met him. He was brilliant because he was able to transmute the excitement he felt into text on the page and make you excited, too. He was, of course, funny -- Claude's wit was the key to his charm. I doubt he knew how much I admired him, or how much he'll be missed. I hope he knew.

TOMATA DU PLENTY, ARTIST

(AND FORMER SCREAMERS SINGER)

Venice, California, at the corner of Thornton Avenue and the Pacific Ocean, was where Kickboy made his home with the lovely Philomena. Philly was sweet, demure and considerate, everything that Kickboy wasn't. They were the perfect match. Kickboy Face was loud, rude and bombastic, French accent included, and I wouldn't have wanted him any other way. The late '70s were drowning in a sea of mellowness and complacency. Kickboy was "the Voice of Beautiful Rage!" crying out of the wilderness. I'm damned lucky to have known him.

BOB BIGGS, PRESIDENT,

LONDON/SLASH RECORDS

Claude always had something to say no matter what the subject was. Whether it was talking about the fins on classic American cars, or anything about car culture, rock culture, pop culture, whatever, nobody could make it seem as poetic. I never, ever had to worry about being short of copy when I took over from Samiof as publisher of Slash. It was impossible to have a conversation with him without disagreeing. We clashed because he was so purist about everything, but his innate comedic sense made it so you couldn't stay upset for long.

SUSAN MARTIN, SMART ART PRESS

After Claude moved on from doing odd jobs on the Santa Monica Pier (he particularly liked the bumper cars -- thank god he never drove on the streets!) to being the hilarious, rubber-faced madman and scribe of the L.A. punk scene, a critic in New York said that Claude, and his equally insane East Coast counterpart Lester Bangs, had revolutionized rock journalism.

STEVE SAMIOF, CO-FOUNDER OF SLASH

It's really unbelievable it wasn't his liver that quit him. Unbelievable. He taught me how to drink with abandon; he was my guru. He taught me red wine, and he taught me brandy. And when we'd get loaded, we'd lament all the assholes in the world, wishing they'd fuck off and die. And while I hadn't seen him in 15 years, it broke my heart to hear the news: The asshole, he fucked off and died.

RICHARD MELTZER, WRITER

Kickboy was a decent enough hellion, and a decent enough human for a hellion. A sentimental old slob, even (I saw him cry once). It is sad, sad, sad that he's dust. I found this poem I wrote for him, after he'd already split L.A.:

To Claude Bessy at Whisky [à Go-Go] Acoustic Punk Nite, April '81

you can call him Kick Boy

and you can call him Prick Boy

when he had T.B. he was a Sick Boy

but don't call him Hick Boy

he does not like hicks

he does not like folkies

he does not like folk

he pukes on poets

and would not print Chris D. in his own

damn mag

he spits on acoustic

and wouldn't be here tonite

if he wasn't stuffing envelopes for

Rough Trade in London W. Eleven

seven times I heard him say

Richard Casey the Irish drunk

was only a Mick Boy

but Claude you silly old muh-fuh

you are not a Slick Boy

and haven't been a hippie for

at least 6 years

you use the cheapest shave cream

this side of soap

carefully avoiding the SLASH of

your safety blade

straight razors forced you to walk out

on Dressed To Kill

'cause hot blood on metal is not

your meat

but it's the mythos that counts,

y'old Kickeroo

and nobody threaded that needle

more mythically

than you.