wan-chan.site/wp-content/34.php Table of contents. Cite Share. Cited by. Abstract Text Notes Author. Full text. Zoom in Original jpeg, k. Les transports en c Le sultan Murat IV interdit Credits T. Author Sophie-Anne Sauvegrain. Read Open Access. Freemium Recommend to your library for acquisition. Buy Print version Place des libraires leslibraires. ISBN: DOI: Sauvegrain, S. In David, J. Give me a fucking break! Is this a song about a douche bag, or what? Some people take that kind of lyric seriously! There are some dead giveaways in that album, too.
For instance, on the fadeout of "Fountain of Love" you can hear the opening notes of Rite of Spring. One song has the background chant of "Earth Angel" superimposed on the chant from another song, and so on. The satire in Ruben worked on two or three levels. I detest love lyrics. I think one of the causes of bad mental health in the United States is that people have been raised on 'love lyrics. You're a young kid and you hear all those 'love lyrics,' right? Your parents aren't telling you the truth about love, and you can't really learn about it in school.
You're getting the bulk of your 'behavior norms' mapped out for you in the lyrics to some dumb fucking love song. It's a subconscious training that creates desire for an imaginary situation which will never exist for you. People who buy into that mythology go through life feeling that they got cheated out of something. What I think is very cynical about some rock and roll songs -- especially today -- is the way they say: "Let's make love.
You ought to be able to say "Let's go fuck," or at least "Let's go fill-in-the-blank" -- but you gotta say "Let's make love" in order to get on the radio. This creates a semantic corruption, by changing the context in which the word 'love' is used in the song. Fortunately, lyrics over the last five or six years have gotten to be less and less important, with 'art rock groups' and new wavers specializing in 'nonjudgmental' or 'purposely inconsequential' lyrics. People have stopped listening to the lyrics -- they are now only 'pitched mouth noises.
In and '67, the L. Every weekend people were rounded up with no warrants presented or charges stated as they walked on Sunset Boulevard, forced into Sheriffs buses, driven downtown, held hostage for the evening, then let go -- all because they had LONG HAIR. The places where they used to eat Ben Frank's on Sunset and Canter's Deli on Fairfax were under constant surveillance. The city government threatened to take away Elmer Whisky-a-Go-Go Valentine's liquor license if he didn't stop booking long-haired acts into his club.
There was no place left to work in Hollywood. The first place we stayed, before we could find an apartment, was the Hotel Van Rensselaer on Eleventh Street. We were living in a small room on one of the upper floors. I was working on the album cover illustration for Absolutely Free at a desk by the window. I remember the place being so dirty I couldn't keep the soot off the artwork. We lived on sandwiches and coffee from the Smiler's Deli around the corner. It was cold enough that a container of milk left on the outside windowsill wouldn't go bad for days but when you brought it back in it was covered with soot.
The Fugs, who were also working in the Village then, tried to launch a protest against Con Ed the suspected source of this evil by urging concerned citizens to mail their snot to the head office. We were amazed at this grubbiness because we had just come from California, where we had a fairly nice house in Laurel Canyon for two hundred dollars a month with a fireplace, two bedrooms, a kitchen, a garage and our very own patch of dirt in the backyard. There were trees around. It was sort of pretty, and we had privacy. Gail went out to look for an apartment near the Garrick and finally found a place at Thompson Street apartment 3-C , right around the corner from the theater.
I took a break from rehearsal and went with her to look at it. When we got to the door, we found that a wino had passed out, pissed himself, and was wedged against it. In , this was what you got in New York City for two hundred dollars a month. Our New Home had a bedroom, a living room-kitchenette and a bathroom -- with a view of a brick wall out the window. We lived there for several months before we found a sublet near Seventh Avenue on Charles Street, the ground floor of a brown-stone. It was our privilege to occupy this space during the garbage strike. The debris was piled up right outside our bedroom window.
We listened to the rats at night. During the time we lived in the Thompson Street cracker-box, my brother visited me from Los Angeles, along with Dick Barber, his friend from high school who eventually became our road manager and another friend, Bill Harris now a prominent film critic. The three of them were sleeping on the living room floor. About that time I got the idea for the We're Only In It for the Money album, and was looking for an artist capable of creating the ultimate parody of the Sgt. Pepper cover. I heard about Cal Schenkel, a former boyfriend of the girl who was our opening act at the Garrick.
He came up from Philadelphia and showed me his portfolio. The stuff was great, but the only way to hire him was to find a place for him to stay in New York. And guess where it was? So it was Bobby, Bill, Calvin and Dick, on the floor, in sleeping bags. During that summer, Greenwich Village was absurd. Any rumor, no matter how stupid, could turn out to be true -- so, at one point, rumor had it that a hippie had killed a Marine. Stories circulated that the Marines were going to come to the Village and kill all the hippies.
Everybody who was hippie-looking had their eyes peeled for people who looked like Marines. Everyone figured they wouldn't really come in dressed like Marines, so they were also on the lookout for anyone with hair that was too short, or who had clean fingernails. In the midst of this, we were working the Garrick, six nights a week, two shows a night, and rehearsing in the afternoon. New York weather in the summertime is pretty disgusting. Sometime around the first of June, the air conditioner died and the owner of the theater David Lee Roth's Dad, I'm told decided that it would be too expensive to fix it.
Picture a room like a long, narrow tunnel actually, a former 'art movie' theater that holds three hundred people; easily degrees at all times, totally humid, and no air circulating. The floor of that stage had a green rug on it. When we filmed the "Mr. Green Genes" video, the people on stage had stomped a bunch of vegetables and whipped cream into it, and it never got cleaned.
The stuffed giraffe and the other toys we used in the show lived in a box on the side of the stage, along with chunks of dead vegetables. All organic matter in the theater had begun to reproduce itself, and was producing 'a bad smell. The rotten vegetables were only part of the early M. The shower curtain was to have been an American flag, and behind it, hanging from the gallows, was to be a side of beef at room temperature. I proposed to roll this out at the end of each show, play a fanfare and open the curtain, releasing flies into the audience.
Anyway, we were in there every afternoon, rehearsing. One day, three Marines, in full dress uniform, came through the door, sat down in the front row -- and didn't say anything. I asked them how they were doing and, of course, did they want to sit in? I asked them if they knew any songs. Would you guys like to sing with us tonight?
I said, "Go across the street to the Tin Angel, have a few drinks, and come back when the show is on. When they came back, I brought them up on stage -- although it must have been against regulations for them to do this kind of thing in full dress -- and had them sing "Everybody Must Get Stoned. I handed them a big baby doll and said, "Suppose you just pretend that this is a 'gook baby. It was truly horrible. After it was over, I thanked them and, with a quiet musical accompaniment, showed the ruined parts of the doll to the audience.
Nobody was laughing. On another occasion, Jimi Hendrix sat in with us. I didn't know him before then, and I can't remember how I was introduced to him -- probably met him at the Tin Angel. A few days later he came to visit our cubicle on Charles Street with his friend, drummer Buddy Miles. Jimi was wearing green velvet pants -- all decked out -- on his way to a party with Buddy. The only thing that Buddy said was "Hi, Frank," after which he sat on the couch, leaned back and passed out, snoring. They were there for about an hour and a half. Buddy had a nice nap, and Hendrix ripped his pants at the crotch while demonstrating a dance step.
Gail sewed them up for him. When it was time to leave he said, "Come on, Buddy. One day, on my way to lunch at the T. Later that night, I handed him some maracas and a tambourine -- he didn't get paid, but he got to stand onstage and 'be in the band. Part of our show included the concept of nightly 'enforced recreation' -- sort of like audience participation, only more dangerous.
We'd be playing something and I'd lean over and say, "Sal, see that guy over there? Go get him. It was then my privilege to invent 'recreational activities' for these hapless individuals, inducing them to 'participate.
He's the guy lying on his back with a corncob in his mouth, having whipped cream squirted in his face during 'Mr. Green Genes. He never had it cleaned. Do you know what real whipped cream smells like on BO buckskin at plus degrees? We're talking bestiality here. I saw him again about ten or twelve years later, when he showed up at a gig in Sacramento. He was operating a pizza place then. He swore he had found the Secret City of fill in the blank with an eleven-syllable word in South America -- housing untold riches -- but he didn't have any way to get the stuff out.
There were two suburban Jewish guys who attended the Garrick shows relentlessly. They came to at least thirty shows. At the end of our run they came backstage, opened up their wallets and, with tears in their eyes, showed me all their ticket stubs. They loved the Garrick shows. One of the guys -- I'm pretty sure his name was Mark Trottiner -- liked to run up the aisle, jump on stage, grab the microphone out of my hand and scream into it as loud as he could.
Then he would fall on the stage, roll over like a dog and urge me to spit Pepsi-Cola all over his body. What a crowd-pleaser. Ten years later, I was doing a Halloween show at the Palladium, and I looked out into the audience and thought I saw him. It had to be him. I said, "Aren't you the guy who used to --? He grew up to become a record distributor in Queens. Another regular was a guy we called "Louie the Turkey" -- because of his laugh. His real name was Louis Cuneo. He wound up on the Lumpy Gravy album as one of the people talking about incomprehensible stuff, inside a piano.
We would always know when Louie was in the theater because we could hear him in the back of the room. I would invite him onstage, give him a stool to sit on, hand him the microphone and stop the music. He would sit there and laugh -- at nothing -- and the whole audience would laugh with him for five minutes. Then we thanked him, and he'd leave.
We opened the Garrick run during Easter vacation There were lines around the block, in the snow. However, as soon as school reconvened, attendance plummeted. On our worst night we had three paying customers. We told them we were going to give them an evening of customized, personal entertainment. There was a passageway in back of the Garrick that led downstairs to the Cafe au-Go-Go's kitchen. Everybody in the band went down and got hot cider and bunches of little snacks.
We put towels over our arms, like waiters, went back, served our audience their refreshments and talked with them for an hour and a half. On another occasion we had only ten or fifteen people. We asked them whether they would like to be the band for the night. They thought it was a good idea, so we gave them our instruments, sat in the audience for an hour and a half and listened to them play the show.
A little guy came walking in, kind of wet, and introduced himself as Paul Simon. He said he wanted me to come to dinner at his house that night, and gave me the address. I said okay and went there. As I walked in the door, Paul was on his hands and knees in front of what appeared to be a Magnavox stereo -- the same model preferred by "the Stumbler" from Sun Village. He had his ear right up to the speaker, listening to a Django Reinhardt record.
Within moments -- for no apparent reason -- he announced that he was upset because he had to pay six hundred thousand dollars in income tax that year. This was completely unsolicited information, and I thought to myself, If only I could earn six hundred thousand dollars. What did you have to earn in order to have to pay that much tax? Then Art Garfunkel came in, and we talked and talked. They hadn't been on the road in a long time, and were reminiscing about the 'good old days.
I said, "Well, I can understand your desire to experience the joys of touring once again, and so I'll make you this offer. I won't tell anybody. On the way out, after the show, a college-educated woman walked over to me and said, "Why did you do that? What the fuck did she think had just happened? When we returned to California in , we moved into a large log cabin, once owned by old-time cowboy star Tom Mix, at the corner of Laurel Canyon Boulevard and Lookout Mountain Drive. The living room was seventy-five by thirty feet, with a huge fireplace. Close to a dozen people, mostly employees, lived there.
The rent was seven hundred dollars a month. Cal Schenkel had his own little art department in one wing of the house. In the basement was a one-lane bowling alley and enough space for the band to rehearse.
It had two walk-in safes -- like bank vaults -- and a subbasement which had probably been a wine cellar. It was rustic and decrepit; it really looked like an old-time log cabin, with rough-hewn wood, bristling with splinters. On the day Mick Jagger stopped by for his first visit, one of the above-mentioned splinters crammed itself into the end of the big toe on my right foot, just as I was making my way to the door.
I greeted Mr. Jagger, hopping on one foot. He asked why I was behaving in this manner. I told him about the splinter and hobbled over to a chair. He followed, got on the floor in front of me, located the little wooden tormentor and removed it. We spent about an hour after that discussing European history. Alongside the house on the grounds was a big concrete fish pond full of weeds. Next to that was a hole in the ground surrounded by a concrete block filled with stagnant water. I was told that it was a secret passageway that went under the street to Harry Houdini's old house on the other side of Laurel Canyon Boulevard.
I never found out if that was true. Running up the hillside, behind the house, was a collection of man-made caves built out of stucco, with electric wiring and light bulbs inside. The residents at that time included my wife, Gail; my secretary, Pauline Butcher ; our road manager, Dick Barber; Pamela Zarubica; Ian Underwood; Motorhead Sherwood; and a girl named Christine Frka -- the woman on the cover of the Hot Rats album crawling out of the crypt.
Christine Frka was our baby-sitter, along with Pamela Des Barres. Moon was about eight months old, and Dweezil hadn't been born yet. That's the cast of characters and the setting. One of the reasons we finally moved out was that everybody in Hollywood knew where it was, and they were knocking on the door at all hours of the day and night wanting to have a party. The front door was open.
A guy walked in off the street and introduced himself as "The Raven," and said that he had something for me. First he handed me a bottle of fake blood with a rag in it, said, "I have isolated The Specimen! Wild Man Fischer turned white -- he knew the guy was crazy. My eyebrows went up and down. If the police see you with that gun around here, you're going to be in a lot of trouble. We went out the front door, around the side, past the fish tank to that hole with the stagnant water in it. Everybody had to throw something in the hole. Gail and the rest of the household gathered little objects to toss in.
Then we got our visitor to drop his gun in, and I sprinkled some leaves on top of it, saying, "It's taken care of now. We told him we were very busy then, and urged him to leave -- and started looking for another house to live in. Unfortunately, she OD'd sometime during the s -- I don't know exactly when. Christine was the one who recommended that I record Alice Cooper, and later provided them with the ideas for their costumes.
When I first saw them, they looked pretty much like a bunch of guys from Arizona. They were totally dedicated and devoted to every aspect of rock and roll -- especially the part about guys in bands who had Big Weenies. Miss Mercy's claim to fame at that time was an unusual interest: butter. She used to open the refrigerator, remove a quarter-pound stick, and swallow it whole. Miss Sandra always carried a small can of Crisco for personal lubrication. The only other thing that mattered to them was the concept of raw, unbridled costumery.
There was strong competition between the ladies as to which one was dressing in the most 'unique' way. If you can still find it, Permanent Damage, the album of the GTO's, manages to give a pretty good flavor of their lifestyle. They both kept diaries, so they had cross-references to the same guys. Noel Redding, bassist from the Jimi Hendrix group, also kept diaries, intertwined with the other two. It would have been great to see them all in one book. It's unfortunate that the only diaries published so far have been Pamela's.
Good as they are, they're not nearly as well written or insightful as Cynthia's.
This was toward the end of Cream's existence, when all the guys in the band hated each other. Each guy had his own road manager, his own limousine, his own etc. I said I hadn't. He said "Well, afier the show, come with me. You won't believe this. Upon arrival we found, sitting in the lobby, two girls. They didn't say a word -- just stood up and followed us into the elevator, and into the room.
The suitcase girl opened the suitcase. The other one opened the bag. They took out some 'statuettes': "Here's Jimi Hendrix, and here's Noel Redding, and here's the roadie from. They put them on the coffee table and took out the rest of their gear -- everything a person might need to make a plaster replica of the human weenus. The Plaster-Casters were written up in various publications at that time. Probably as a result of this, our office received a portfolio from a guy who claimed to be doing something similar with female organs, casting them in silver.
Very nice. The material used for the molds in each case was the same stuff the dentist puts in your mouth for taking impressions of your teeth. It's a powder called alginate, which, when mixed with water, gets rubbery, and eventually hardens so that plaster can be poured into it. The way the Plaster-Casters worked was, one of them would mix the goo while the other one gave the guy a blow job. As you can imagine, this sort of thing requires a scientific sense of timing. The blow-job girl had to take her mouth off the guy's dick at the precise moment the other one slammed the container full of glop onto the end of it, holding it there until it hardened enough to make a good mold.
Cynthia wouldn't blow the guys; that was the other girl's assignment. Cynthia mixed the goo. Meanwhile, the 'subject' had to concentrate on maintaining an erection, otherwise he wouldn't make a good impression. After his performance, when introduced to him backstage, I said I really liked what he was doing, and said that if he felt like joining us onstage during our set, he was more than welcome.
In spite of his blindness, I believed we could accommodate whatever he wanted to do. We began our set, wending our atonal way toward a medley of s-style honking saxophone numbers. During this fairly complicated, choreographed routine, Rahsaan, assisted by his helper can't remember his name , decided to join in. The touring package did not carry its own PA -- we had to use whatever speakers existed in each of the venues we were booked into. The hall in South Carolina was rigged with small jukebox speakers, set in a ring around the building. Useless, but there we were -- we had to play the show.
Before we went on, I saw Duke Ellington begging -- pleading -- for a ten-dollar advance. It was really depressing. After that show, I told the guys: "That's it -- we're breaking the bande up. If Duke Ellington had to beg some George Wein assistant backstage for ten bucks, what the fuck was I doing with a ten-piece band, trying to play rock and roll -- or something that was almost rock and roll? I was paying everybody in the band a weekly salary of two hundred dollars -- all year round, whether we were working or not, along with all hotel and travel expenses when we did get work.
The guys in the band were pissed off -- as if their welfare had been canceled -- but at that point I was ten thousand dollars in the red. I spent part of working in the studio on the Hot Rats album, and did a few local gigs with Ian Underwood and Sugarcane Harris. It was going nowhere. The album, which I happened to like a lot, sneaked onto the Billboard charts somewhere around 99 and vanished immediately. In the United States, at least, I had produced another flop. The very idea! An all-instrumental album, except for one vocal cut -- and that had to feature Captain Beefheart!
He's no singer! Why are you wasting America's precious time with this, you asshole! As it has turned out, that album, as a catalog item, has outlived just about everything else released in , and, for our beloved friends in the British Isles, stands out as the only 'good' Zappa album ever released -- more about those guys later. Sometime in , I had an offer for a major concert performance of the orchestral music accumulating in my closet. During the M.
This material eventually became the score for Motels based on an estimate of the number of gigs we played in the first five years -- forty jobs per year? A pretty big deal. This eventually led to a few problems. I, had been disbanded for about a year. Second, there were no parts copied for the scores, and I was being asked to pay for this enormous job seven thousand dollars.
The third problem was that I wanted some kind of tape of the show, and the Musicians' Union wouldn't allow it. They didn't do anything when some asshole in the audience ran a cassette and made a bootleg album out of it, but they were promising stern action if I made one for my own use -- just to find out what my pieces sounded like.
It was the most successful indoor concert of the L. Phil's season that year -- sold out. Somewhere in that mass of spectators were Mark Volman and Howard Kaylan, a. They came backstage after the show, said they liked it, and told me that the Turtles had split up and they were looking for something to do. The rest is history.
We worked together for about two years after that on several albums and tours as well as the film Motels. For those of you wishing for a whiff of that particular nostalgia, I recommend the acquisition of the film itself, along with the documentary I prepared called The True Story of " Motels," available in most outlets through Honker Home Video.
That story is best told in pictures.
Par exemple du rouge vif cela passe au jaune vif. She had the living room sofa. It is both logically and chronologically irrational, even if you already deal with factors of production previously liquefied in money terms Say's founding trick built on Ricardo's paper currency. All Jacky has to do now is to go and have a good wash. So I had dinner with Keith.
People who have never been in a rock band maintain the most ridiculous fantasies about how glamorous and exciting and endlessly gratifying Life On The Road must be. It's not that I haven't had a few laughs out there -- but let's just say the ratio isn't that terrific. Some moments are unique, though. It was the middle of winter in Stockholm, We had just finished two shows at the Konserthuset.
I was walking out of the hall when two kids came up to me and said that they had been to both shows that night, that they had a great idea, and wondered if I'd go along with it. He has school tomorrow. They wanted me to go with them to their house in the middle of the night, sneak into Hannes's room, wake him up and say, "Hannes! Wake up! It's me, Frank Zappa. I was taken into a typical kid's room filled with the little models he had built. Hannes was asleep in his little bed. It was freezing cold. I woke him up. As expected, he was very surprised.
The mother and father got up, wearing long nightgowns. They were very nice people. We sat in the kitchen until A. Except for that incident, the European winter tour gets the award for being the most disastrous. On December 4, we were working at the Casino de Montreux in Geneva, Switzerland, right on the edge of the lake -- just in front of Igor Stravinsky Street -- a venue noted for its jazz festivals. In the middle of Don Preston's synthesizer solo on "King Kong," the place suddenly caught fire. Somebody in the audience had a bottle rocket or a Roman candle and fired it into the ceiling, at which point the rattan covering started to burn other versions of the story claim the blaze was the result of faulty wiring.
There were between twenty-five hundred and three thousand kids packed into the room -- well over capacity. Since more kids were outside, trying to get in, the organizers had cleverly chained the exit doors shut. When the fire began, the audience was left with two ways out: through the front door, which was pretty small, or through a plate-glass window off to the side of the stage.
I made an announcement -- something like: "Please be calm. We have to leave here. There is a fire and why don't we get out? They began filing out through the front door. As the room was filling with smoke, one of our roadies took an equipment case and smashed the big window. The crew then began helping people to escape through it into some kind of garden place below. The band escaped through an underground tunnel that led from behind the stage through the parking garage.
A few minutes later the heating system in the building exploded, and some people were blown through the window. Fortunately, nobody was killed and there were only a few minor injuries -- however, the entire building, about thirteen million dollars' worth, burned to the ground, and we lost all our equipment. We were in the middle of a sold-out tour with ten more dates to go. Back at the hotel, most of the band voted for finishing the tour -- or at least trying.
The problem was that, even though we didn't have the greatest equipment in the world, we had been using a few special instruments, including a customized Fender Rhodes piano, and other specialized synthesizer gear we couldn't buy off a shelf in Switzerland. My guitar was gone. All of the stage lights were gone. The PA was gone. We canceled a week's worth of jobs, during which we scrounged for new equipment.
The plan was to get to England two days in advance of The Big Gig at the Rainbow, and rehearse with the new gear. We had two nights of double shows coming up and we had to make sure everybody was comfortable with the new stuff. We had some problems -- mikes were feeding back and all kinds of weird shit was happening, but still we managed to make it through the first show.
At the end of the first show, we went offstage and came back to do an encore. I didn't know what had happened to me. In the weeks following the attack, I was able to piece it together, but at the time I had no idea. The band thought I was dead. I had fallen fifteen feet down into a concrete-floored orchestra pit, my head was over on my shoulder, and my neck was bent like it was broken.
I had a gash in my chin, a hole in the back of my head, a broken rib and a fractured leg. One arm was paralyzed. In those days, I didn't carry a bodyguard; 'security' was supplied by the local promoters. In the case of this concert, the security consisted of two big West Indian guys, at either side of the stage. During the encore, they were off smoking reefer someplace. In their absence, a guy by the name of Trevor Howell had run up onto the stage, punched me and knocked me over into the pit. He gave two stories to the press. One of them was that I had been "making eyes at his girlfriend.
I can't even see the audience in those situations -- it's like looking into a black hole. I never even saw the guy coming at me. He told another newspaper that he was pissed off because he felt we hadn't given him "value for his money. After he punched me, he tried to escape into the audience, but a couple of guys in the road crew caught him and took him backstage to hold him for the police. He wound up spending a year in jail for inflicting "grievous bodily harm" on me. I was taken to a public hospital. I remember being in the emergency room which, like the rest of London at that time of year, was freezing cold.
They were clearly understaffed -- a guy two beds down from me had his balls smashed in a brawl someplace, and was howling, unattended. They couldn't give me any anesthetic because I had a head injury, so after a while I just passed out, and woke up later in a bad-smelling room with beds all around, in a circle, with curtains hung between them. I remember the curtains parting in front of me and a black nurse coming in and seeing my face; like she had just seen a monster. I was pretty mashed up. I was later transferred to the Harley Street Clinic where I stayed for the next month.
I had a twenty-four-hour bodyguard because the asshole who had hit me was out on bail, and we didn't know how insane he was. When my head had gone over onto my shoulder, it had crushed my larynx, so I couldn't talk. As a result of that, the pitch of my voice dropped a third and has stayed that way ever since having a low voice is nice, but I would have preferred some other means of acquiring it. After a month, I learned how to walk on crutches. I was in a cast all the way up to my hip, but my leg refused to heal.
ISBN 1. Affaires et politique Afrique. D46 Bre-X et le scandale Enron Cet homme aux quatre passeports est une figure de la mondialisation. Mais pas seulement. Leur nombre est effa- rant. Ils sont les stigmates du profit, mais en tant que d'autres, seulement, les portent. Tandis que Barrick redoutait de s'enliser dans une longue guerre psychologique contre des Africains, Sutton vacillait dans la tour- mente.
KERR et K. Aux grands maux, les grands moyens. Mais pas tous Best Democracy Money Can Buy, op. L'inti- midation tenait seule lieu de preuves. Fact- finding Mission to Tanzania, op. Money Can Buy, op. Mail, 27 novembre Pour sa part, le bien public tanzanien ne profitera pas de la ces- sion des droits d'exploitation. Cette mine regorge de huit millions d'onces d'or Elle engendre en tous les cas des troubles respiratoires graves.
Le sur- nombre se traduit par une insuffisance de vaccins de BCG contre la tuberculose, jadis fournis par l'Unicef. L'enjeu est pourtant vital. XXII et suiv. Entretien de Camille de Vitry avec nous le 12 janvier On ne parle pour le moment que de la mort de passagers. Par chance, Hors Mali Il oc- Pourront se faire sentir encore 20 ans plus tard Un silence assourdissant accompagnera les rares vieillards qui raconteront Sadiola comme s'il s'agissait d'une fiction.
On trouvait encore sur le site de N'Golopene 2,5 grammes d'or par tonne Toutes deux, en effet, ont des dossiers noirs. Ressources Robex Inc. Trente-six litres d'une solution de cyanure ont fui dans le cours d'eau d'Angonaben, en juin Une autre canadienne, la Golden Star Resources, exploite sur km2 du diamant et de l'or au Ghana sous le nom de la Bogoso Prestea Mines.
Ce dernier convoite deux sites importants. On escompte tonnes de cuivre et 8 tonnes de cobalt en l'an Mais elle bute, selon ses propres dires, sur un Mobutu qui, en. C'est lui qui nouera le contact avec les forces rwandaises et ougandaises qui fourbissent leurs armes pour renverser Mobutu pour de bon. Quatorze pour cent de la population des provinces du Nord-Kivu, du Sud-Kivu, du Manierai et du Katanga se trouvent dans cette situation, soit au moins 1,5 million de personnes.
Via sa Consolidated Eurocan. Ventures, cf. L'addition est lourde Rapport Lutundula, op. Mais les espoirs sont minces. Day, 4 janvier Mining Watch, www. Anvil a l'habitude de les faire chasser par des policiers. Les travaux d'exploitation ont toutefois repris en mai Defense, Que proposait Iscor? Karthala, coll. Forrest fait donc des affaires, de la politique et des guerres. Lorsqu'elle a voulu investir au. La Katanga Mining n'effectuera ni investissement, ni exploita- tion au Congo. Does Congo's diamond trade defy change?
Arnaud LA. Gaston M. Mais personne n'en a vu les effets. Les morts se compteront par millions. Kabila qui continue de bien le servir. La MIBA aussi serait dans le coup. Le Rapport Lutundula, op. Pis, la puissance d'intimidation de Gertler rend maintenant la corruption accessoire. Mais ces anecdotes de la vie congolaise ne font pas le poids pour freiner l'empire.
Le pays vaste comme un continent se divise en quatre grandes parties. Cette guerre aurait fait quatre millions de morts. Les affaires supposent que l'on transige avec les puissances qui occupent le terrain, quelles qu'elles soient. Tant pis si, du fait de tels partenariats, le pays entier s'enlise cruellement dans des guerres civiles et des guerres d'occupation. George j. Democracy Money Can Buy, op. Bush served in an honorary capacity as an advisor to Barrick's international Advisory Board for two years in the mid 's.. Canada en , au conseil d'administration.
Cet important partenaire a le bras long. Et le malaise est profond. Les retournements sont innombrables. George J. Parmi ces derniers toutefois, on compte beaucoup de victimes psycholo- giques, puisque les effectifs d'enfants-soldats, qui ont parfois moins de dix ans, se comptent par dizaines de milliers. Ses nouvelles lettres de noblesse ac- quises, on ne retiendra de son engagement dans la guerre que ses profits. En rachetant l'Adastra, FQM joue et gagne sur tous les tableaux. Sarnia Kazi.