Sep 3, 2010

Interview from 2002: Sekou Bembeya Diabate from Bembeya Jazz National

After the Musiques Mètisses festival in Angoulême, France, in 2002, the legendary Guinean dance band Bembeya Jazz stayed behind to rehearse and record in a nightclub called Le Nef. The band spent their days working hard there, and at night, retired to the comfort of an abbey to stay in rooms usually reserved for priests in training. This was an unusual setting for a mostly Muslim band, but it was peaceful, and it gave a journalist a rare opportunity to have a long conversation with the band's leader and founding member, Sekou Bembeya Diabate. Here is that interview.

Interview by Banning Eyre!!!

The interview

So, Sekou Bembeya Diabate, how did you get your start in music?

How I came into music--it's a family affair, from generation to generation, a grand Manding griot family. Traditional. From father to son. My father played the balafon and the acoustic guitar in the traditional griot style, [with the fingers] without chords, and then you put the capo on to change the key. That's it. My father [El Hadj Djeli Fode Diabaté (d. 1988)] was among the first who introduced the guitar to Guinea.

I was born 1n 1944 in Thiero, in the region of Faranah, in haut-Guinea, far from Beyla. When I was very young, I was much more interested in the guitar than in the balafon. My father wanted to send me to Koranic school when I was ten, and I said to him, "But I need a guitar." So he ordered a special guitar, a metal guitar.

A National steel guitar?

That's right. In 1954. It was very expensive at the time. That was my first personal guitar.

Wow. You were lucky.

To be sure. To be sure. Nobody in my generation had a guitar like that. It was for the big people. But my father found it, especially for me. So with that I began my autonomy.

Eric Charry writes in his book that Facelli Kante made the first guitar recordings in 1954. But you had grown up with the guitar, all your life. There was never a time when you didn't hear the guitar.

That's it. That's it. Exactly. It was in the cradle with me.

So when those recordings were made, it was nothing new for you.

Not at all. The songs he recorded I didn't hear at the time, because I was still in the village, but when I came to Conakry around 1959, I heard those recordings. But at the time, no.

When did griots first start playing guitars?

Ahhhh. A long time ago, since maybe the 1930s.

Charry says the big influx of guitars came when soldiers brought them back from Europe after World War II.

I don't know exactly, but I know that ever since the 1930s, there were guitars around. My father had one.

I love that your father not only played but got you a good guitar. So many guitarists I've interviewed started out by having their father try to stop them from playing.

Yes, that's it. But at the same time, he wanted me to go to Koranic school. He really wanted me to play music, but he also wanted me to be very strong in the Koranic spirit, and to become a griot, able to find the words to council people in the spirit of Islam--all that. That was his desire: make music, but at the same time council people in good things. That was his goal. But, as it turned out, (en fait de compte) my destiny was to go towards the modern. He wanted me to make music in the great tradition.

So did this become a problem between you?

No. No. He understood. There was no problem.

He understood that music and education could go together.

He did.

So you got the guitar in 1955, and six years later, Bembeya Jazz started. What happened during those six years?

In 1959, I was invited to Conakry by the son of a friend of my father's. He invited me to visit Conakry. So I stayed in the Bonfil neighborhood. His name was Abou Camara and he lived there. This was my first time in Conakry and I had a great time there. At the time, El Hadj Sidikiba Diabaté was already in Conakry, and a big, big artist. He was an uncle of mine, so I went to his family. Now his son, my cousin, "Papa" Diabaté, was the number one guitar player of the time. "Papa" Diabaté. He was the one who showed me my first lessons in modern guitar playing.

Before that, it was all traditional.

Voila. From '54 to '59. "Diarabi," "Makalé" things like that, traditional things. So then my father sent for me, and I went home. This was about 1960 now. So that year, or 1961, someone from Kisidougou--that's a town in the forest--came for me. They sent a delegation asking me to come there as a guitarist as soon as possible. But I spent just a short time in Kisidougou, and then I went to Kankan. The reason I left Kisidougou is a bit of a story. You know that I had been to Koranic school. Well, I was a bit of a fanatic, and I had gone into a boutique where they sold alcohol. One day, I was angry and I broke a lot of bottles.

Why did you do that?

Because I didn't like that.

It went against your traditional education.

Exactly. But when I broke all those bottles, the director came to me and he said, "Very well, this is what I want. There is a man here in Kisidougou called Papa Yaré, and he wants you to go to Kankan." I went to Kankan all alone, and it went very well. I had a lot of success for a month or two. But after some time, the Commandant of Beyla, Emile Kondé, heard about me, because I had already been making a lot of noise in Kankan. "There's a young guy here, but he's very good. He's so young. It's not possible!" Like that. So he said, "Find me this young man. I want to meet him." So they found me and took me to the place where he was staying in Kankan, and in the course of our discussion, he found that his very close friend, very close, was the younger brother of my father.

He had asked me if I knew Sirakata Diabaté, and I had said, "But Sirakata Diabaté is my father's younger brother!" He said, "Oh good." So we kept talking. Then he told me he was leaving for Beyla and had I ever been there? I said, "No, I've never gone to Beyla." Kankan already seemed far away to me; Beyla was really far. It was another 250 km into the forest. Very far! As he understood that I didn't want to go, he left. Then he went to Sirakata and he explained, "Sirakata, I'm going to give you a car especially to go and get your nephew in Kankan." And he came looking for me. When he told me we were going to Beyla, I said, "No, I'm not going."

He said to me, "Sekou, I am going to tell you. I am the young brother of your father. If you do not come with me, I am going to report this to Kankan. You know our laws. I am capable of obliging you to come.

I said, "No, it's not worth it." I prepared my things and we went to Beyla.

You were forced to go?

Obligatoirement. [LAUGHS] So when I arrived in Beyla, it was now the start of 1961. This coincided with the band's baptism, so I became a founding member of the band and the first guitarist. There weren't many guitarists at the time. And we started to work together.

So this was the beginning of Sekou Toure's great project of state support for music. Did you realize at the time what a historic thing that was?

Definitely (tout a fait). No one was used to that. Me I was in the plain tradition with my big brother, Papa. We were among the first musicians. He was in the national orchestra, which was called Syli Orchestre. So because of that, I had understood the idea of a band. In '59 and '60, I was with him often, whether he was playing in the Orchestre National or just in a bar. It was great lesson, both for me individually and the group. That served me well.

So in the beginning in Beyla, what sort of concerts did you play?

No, we didn't play concerts at the time. It was evening dances. In a big hall, because there was a big hall there. We left often to play in other towns, even in Cote D'Ivoire. We'd start around 9:00 and play right through to the morning.

And you played in competitions? Biennalles?

It was a little later that the Biennales started. Every two years, they would make a selection in each locality to find groups to perform in the capital to be among the best.

I must ask about my friend Leo Sarkisian, who arrived in Beyla just as Bembeya Jazz was starting up.

Voila. That was our first record in 1962. That was our very first record.

What did you think about this American guy showing up with recording gear?

I was astonished. It was extraordinary. It made me think, hey this music is serious. This American has come all the way here to record it. That's serious. We really have to work. It encouraged us even more. That is not an ordinary thing, that an American comes to record us. So, we really have to work. That really helped us.

Maybe Sekou Toure knew it would have that effect.

Tout a fait. Tout a fait. He really liked music. He really liked art in general. He was a man of culture, a man of art. He had a lot of respect, right to the end of his life.

Back to Bembeya. You eventually moved to Conakry. When and how did that happen?

That was later. Because we won a competition, one time, two times. After we had had lots and lots of success in the captial, Conakry, the Bureau Politic National proposed that we come to the capital. That was now in 1965. That was when we were nationalized and became a national band like Keletigui, like Bala. We were now the third group. We moved in 1966 to Conakry.
Bembeya Jazz, first album cover

Is that when you became Bembeya Jazz rather than Orchestra Beyla?

No. We were always called Bembeya Jazz, from the start, from 1961.

Where did the name Bembeya come from?

We had a meeting and said each person must propose a name. We had a friend there called Bankal (?) Traore. He was the one who said, why not just Bembeya Jazz? Since that day, we've been Bembeya Jazz. That's it. Since April 1961: Bembeya Jazz.

So looking at the members now, you were there. Mohammed Kaba was there. Mory Konde (Mangala) was there on drums. What about the singers?

There was a girl.

And Salifou was there.

Salifou was not there. He came in 1963, with Demba Camara. They came together. On that first record, he was not there.

So in the present group, we have three original members, and Salifou, who came two years later.


So what changed for the group when you moved to Conakry in 1965?

That changed everything. We were promoted from a small town to a big capital city. That's a big promotion. We had to work hard to merit this honor. We couldn't slack off.

What was Conakry like back then?

In Conakry at that time we played every night except Sunday night. Every night. It was extraordinary. Every night until 2:00 in the morning.

La Paillote [an open air club under a big tent] was there?

Paillote. Jardin du Guinea. And later the Palmier. With all that, the town was really animated.

So how did things change over the years?

You know that in life, times change. When times change, lots of things change. When you are used to certain things and times change, peoples' behavior changes, social life changes. It's a new time. End of story.

Let's take 1980, near the end of Sekou Toure's time, and a time when the economy has become more difficult. How was the scene then?

By 1980, we weren't playing as regularly any more. We played, but not like before. There were lots of other groups by then too. In every time, with music, it's the youth who earn all the money among us. That's why I tell you that times change. The current generation of young musicians earn the money.

Right up to today.


But in 1980, you were still pretty strong.

Yes, less strong than before, but we still played a lot.

What was the effect on music in Guinea when Sekou Toure died in 1984? Was that a big deal?

Very much so. If you were an artist, a musician, a patriot, any conscious person, the death of President Sekou Toure was a shock. Then, as I told you, times changed. Before the death of President Sekou Toure, he asked us whether we wanted to have autonomy from the government. We said that we did, that we would like to try being autonomous. So he gave each national band a bar. We had our bar, which was called Club Bembeya. This was almost in 1984; a few months later he was dead. He gave us Club Bembeya, and he even got us instruments. Bala et Ses Baladins had Jardins du Guinea. Keletigui et Ses Tambourinis had La Paillote. Horoya Band was at La Minier. He said, "If this works for you, no problem. But if it doesn't work, we will see what else we can do for you." But then he was dead.

Let's talk for a moment about Sekou Toure in general. He is a very interesting figure, but also a paradoxical one. We know, as you say, that he was a great man of culture who did things that all of Africa must thank him for. He changed the history of music. But he was also very tough. If we look at what happened to Keita Fodeba, who was his friend but who was later killed by him. How do you put all that together?

No. What I would like here is for us to talk only about the musical side. As far as the political side, I know nothing about that. We should just talk about the area of music. There, I can tell you whatever you like, but as for the political side, I have nothing to say about that.

Okay. It's interesting to me that so many African musicians have strong relationships with political leaders, but very few actually sing about politics in their songs. Even in interviews, others have declined to discuss politics with me. Would you say that by its nature, Guinean music is not political music?

Because, you know, you are with a man you respect and who has given you all of your dignity. We sing social songs. We sing songs that advise people to do good things, for themselves and for the country. We sing love songs as well. We sing songs about work. Yes. So that is our objective so that the country concerns itself with its problems. That's it.

Tell me about some of the most important songs in the history of Bembeya Jazz, in terms of the lyrics. What are the most important songs?

The first big success among the songs of Bembeya Jazz was "Dembaty Gallant," which I sang myself. It was my composition in 1964. That song was a total success in the country. Women even designed a fabric for that song.

What did the song say?

It talks about a woman with her baby. Be careful. Pay attention. Don't joke around too much. Like that.

A song of daily life.

Voila. That song really interested the women. It was the first big, big success of Bembeya Jazz. Then there was "Armee Guinea," which the Voice of America played often. There was "Mami Wata." That was a popular song. The name is Anglophone, but it had been passed from generation to generation in the Koninke language, where we were. It's about the demoness of water. Mami Wata, like the English word.

The demoness of water. Like Yemanya among the Yoruba.

Voila. It's the same idea. So there was that. There was "Whisky Soda," "Super Tentemba." Then the biggest one of all was "Regard Sur le Passe." That was supreme.

That was for Samory Toure.

And it is a music that does not die.

Eric Charry writes in his book that most of the horn players in these bands came from military bands and were more familiar with European music, but the string players, especially guitarists, came from the tradition of griotism. He says that it was the mixing of these two experiences that created this music.

That's it.

And he says that the song "Regard Sure le Passe" was a very important moment in the ascendancy of tradition in popular music.

Yes, yes. "Regard Sur le Passe" is a masterpiece.

It's interesting, because you went into popular music not to avoid tradition.


But to have a different musical experience.

Thank you.

But in the context of Sekou Toure's Guinea you had to bring the two things together, tradition and modernity. Were you happy with that?

Very happy. Right up to this day. I am very proud of that.

What was the competition like between these groups--Bembeya, Keletigui, Horoya?

It wasn't mean, but when you have competition--as the word suggests--you don't want to lose. If I am competing with you, I want to win. It's not mean, but it's a struggle. … No, it isn't like that. No, no, no, no. Each one of us, we talk, we greet one another. Ohhh!

It's perhaps like the competition between OK Jazz and African Jazz in Congo.

Voila. Really. It was something like that. There weren't disputes between us. We saw each other. We greeted. We competed. One would say, "I'm going to be number one." The other he would say, "It's me who is going to be number one." We would greet each other that way at the end of the day, "May the best win." Ah, yes.

What did you have to have as a band to be on top? There are so many things you can do--change the music, add new instruments, write better songs, play longer shows. What kinds of things did you do to win? For instance, when you listen now, can you say, that idea came from Bembeya Jazz?

Oh yes. Because every band had its arranger. It's true that a single person cannot do everything 100%, and what is clear is that there is one who guides. Without him, nothing can work. To me, it's clear. Is that not true? So this is why there was the difference--when you heard Bala, you knew right away that was Bala; when you heard Keletigui, you knew right away that was Keletigui; when you heard Horoya Band, you knew right away that was Horoya Band. And when you heard Bembeya Jazz, you knew that was Bembeya Jazz. That's it.

And you were the arranger there.

Tout a fait. You have followed me up to this minute.

And it was like that from the start.

That's it. Yes. God gave me the gift to have that intelligence right up to this day. I hope that while we were rehearsing there you could follow a little. I was bringing in certain modifications in preparation for the recording we are going to make.

That's the most important thing, eh? The arranger.

That's it.

And this is what Eric Charry writes, that the skill of arranging was something that was not well developed among traditional musicians.


But arranging came on very strongly during this period of the dance bands.

That's it. Exactly. You know that when God wants to help you with something, he makes it possible. He gives you the intelligence to do it. For example, I want to tell you the story of "Regard Sur le Passé," how it came about. "Regard Sur le Passé." When the president was preparing for the human remains of the heroes who came from Gabon and Guinea--that is Almamy Samory Toure, Alpha Diallo, and Morifina Diabate--to return to be buried in Guinea now, he said that there must be music composed for this occasion. The president sent a circular to all the big groups, all the national orchestras, and even the ensemble instrumental.

What year was that?

It was… Oh! I will ask the year. I will ask Askia; he will tell you. Something like 1970. So the chef d'orchestre at that time was Hamidou Diawane. It was not Kaba. Hamidou Diawane was the first band leader. We spent almost 26 years together. Everyone of us had a meeting at La Paillote. No, pardon. It was Jardin du Guinea, because we played there at that time. We met there and we said, "What should we do?" What should we do? So we went from left to right, and me because I am a griot, I already knew. When I was young, my father had played this song for me. I said to my colleagues, "Why don't we play 'Samory?'" They said, "You know the song for Samory?" I said, "I don't know the song for Samory, but I know that the song for Samory exists, and as there is the Instrumental Ensemble here, and they are of the same generation as my father, it's sure that they will know." So they said, "You will concern yourself with that and record the song." I had a tape recorder at the time. I took my tape recorder. Salifou was with me. We went to the rehearsal fro the Instrumental Ensemble, and we recorded the song, and the text--the story--Salifou concerned himself with that.

The song is "Keme Burema," isn't it?

No, there are many songs there, historical songs.

I see. "Keme Burema" is just one of them. That's the song for the brother of Samory, right?

Voila. Exactly. For the general of the army. So that's the story of "Regard Sur le Passe." All the bands had prepared their concerts, and we presented that. I think it was in 1968, in the Presidential Palace, and when we played, "Regard Sur le Passe," everyone said, "What is that?" [LAUGHS] And we won the first prize.

So that was the first time you had real griotism in a popular band, and of course, people were astonished.

Complete astonished! Keletigui presented for Samory; Bala presented for him; Horoya band presented. But "Regard Sur le Passe" was something else again.

So after that, Manding tradition became more interesting to the dance bands like Bembeya Jazz. Is that true?

Certainly. Afterwards we had other concerts. Then later, in 1973, we said, let's change the style. Let's put on a real show, hot. We did our first one in 1973, with girls, everyone moving. That was something else also.

Now I have to ask you a sad question, about the death of your great singer, Demba Camara.

Demba. Okay, we were invited to Dakar, and we had to play that same night. So when we arrived, I had a friend who worked as a constable at the Guinean Embassy. He came to welcome us at the airport. It was he who said, "Sekou, if you want, you can use my car." I said, good. No problem. I took his car. It was a Peugeot 504. There was a chauffeur. I called Salifou. He went in front with the others, as we had to where we were going to play and set up the instruments. Then afterwards, we would go and wash up, and get ready for the soirée dansante.. Just as we were leaving, Demba got into the car. He said he was tired and he wanted to rest at the hotel. We said, no, we're not going to the hotel yet. We had to go to the venue. He said, "No, really, I'm tired. I want to go to the hotel." So we were having a little discussion there and we drove on.

I don't really know what happened. Maybe the chauffeur was driving a little too fast. On a turn, the car rolled over. And when the car rolled, the car stayed upside-down. The chauffeur, Salifou and I were all still in the car. The others were behind us in another car, following. When they arrived, they saw that Demba had been thrown out of the car. He never spoke again. And soon he died.

Wow. So then afterwards, this was a very hard time for the band.

Yes it was. It was very, very hard for us. It was Demba who had sung "Regard sur le Passe."

Let's come up to more recent times. When I visited you in Conakry in 1992, you were doing some gigs, but not with the full band. What was the state of Bembeya Jazz at this point?

The band was not broken up. In life, there are ups and downs, good moments and bad moments. So you wait. Life is like that. So we can't say that the band was broken up. Never, never. We were waiting.

The last recording before this was in 1988, right?

Yes. That's tough, eh?

But during that time, you made recordings with your wife, Djanka Diabaté, and you made a beautiful acoustic album.

Yes. Oh, you heard that? Diamond Fingers? [LAUGHS]

Oh, you bet. I wrote about it.

You have to send me that stuff for my press book. That's important!

Okay, and there's more coming. So, tell me about the revival of the group for this project. How did this happen?

It's like a factory that has problems. The factory may not be working, but the workers are still there. We had no projects on the outside. Before that, we used to get contracts in Europe, but that stopped. When Christian Mousset met us in 1999 at the Festival at Willet (???), he proposed a project to me. He said he wanted to make a recording of Bembeya Jazz for his new label. He said, there is you and the Rail Band. First I will do the Rail Band and Djelimady, then you too will make an album with the band, and a solo album. I said, with pleasure! So when the time came, we started rehearsing. Everyone was very happy.

Christian is quite an important man in the history of this music, isn't he?

Exactly. He said, "Sekou, truly I want to do something with you because you launched the best African band, and today there are very few big African bands in the market. They've all gone off to become individual acts. So my goal now is to look at the old bands, to go back." So we have been very happy with this program. Because this is the true face of Manding music. That's very important. When you talk about the real originality and modernity of the music, it's us. That's why we're important. In whatever country we visit, we can do what we do and Guinea is there. That's what you call the culture of a country, it's true face. You and I do not resemble each other, but we have the same form. That's what makes the difference on the level of music. Everyone must have his style of music, his way of working the music, his musical identity. That's it. That's why we've always worked. Whether we earn money or we don't earn money, the real fans of this music--like you, for example--this work makes you proud. It pleases you. That's our aim at all times.

You talked about the fact that the youth have the ears of the public at all times. Looking now at the scene in Guinea, is there a chance for a new wave of popularity for Bembeya Jazz there?

But of course. People love us a lot in Conakry. They are proud of Bembeya Jazz. They feel this in African in general.

Mamadi Kouyaté, one of the newest members of the group, told me that there was a very important moment when you played at Kérouané for the 100th anniversary of Samory. Tell me about that.

Oh, yes. [LAUGHS] That was extraordinary, a fabulous moment, something I'll never forget. It was at Kérouané, it was the 100th anniversary of Almamy Samory Toure. It was a great day. His only heir was there with her daughter, Ami Toure. We performed "Regard Sur le Passe" with a few modifications.

A moment to relive history, both yours and his.

That's it. I'm going to talk to Christian about that. I think it's time to record a version of "Regard Sur le Passe" in an English version. There's a project. If you can do that, maybe with a partner, I think it will sell a lot of copies in the United States.

There's an idea.

Think about that.

But before that ceremony, you were living in Paris with Djanka for a few years, I understand, and that event brought the band back together, right?

Yes. I got the call to come back to Conakry. I left everything and I went. It was a new beginning.

Mamadi also told me what a hard time he is having organizing the band's equipment because the government doesn't do anything to support musicians as it did in the past. He seems to feel that today's government no longer understands how important music can be for the country. What do you think of all that?

I can't condemn what he says, but I also cannot condemn the government, because everyone has his idea, his way to move things along. You can't make someone do what he doesn't want to do. If we don't have the same chance with them, maybe one day, we'll find a relationship with someone else. Life is like that. You can't condemn someone because they don't do what you want them to. Is that not true?


But, okay. You might say that I'm a fanatic, but for me, the destiny of a man is in the hands of God. That's why I don't condemn people for what they do or don't do. Christian Mousset, for example. He stayed here, but he thought about us. That's God. From all these miles away, he thought about Bembeya. That's God. If someone doesn't do something for us, there will be another. I don't condemn someone for that.

I follow you. For me, it's not about a particular country, or government, or leader. I just have the hope that African governments in general could rediscover a little of the old inspiration for the arts that Modibo Keita and Sekou Toure had. Because truly, this is a great richness that is being lost in many countries. Christian has done a lot, but why does he have so much ability? It's partly because the French government understands this and gives him money to do it. This festival couldn't exist without their support.

That's true. It's well financed.

This is a complaint I have about most African countries, not just Guinea. The great old music is not cared for.

It's not cared for. That's true. But that will change one day. Really.

Okay, let's talk about now. You are going to make your own album with Christian after this project. What's the plan? Big group? Small group?

My idea? It's a small group. I have two musical possibilities. I've already done a guitar album, as you know. Now, what I want to do is a mix of dance music styles. One part is the guitar. The other is music sung by myself. As always, three guitars, tumba, and two chorus singers.

But this won't be Bembeya Jazz.

No, it's Sekou Bembeya Diabate. You won't regret it!

I'm sure. Tell me about three guitars. Was it always that way?

All that is to improve the sound. Because we, with just one accompanist, with the evolution of the music in big halls and all that, we had to find another possibility to fill out the music. That's why I decided to take another accompanist.

When did you decide that?

Oh, it must be 20 years ago now. More than that.

I love the sound. I'm not a keyboard fan, but this way, the sound is full anyway.

That's it.

Not many groups do that. But it's good.

It's very good. It's original, and it's pleasant.

And Mamadi plays very well. He told me he was playing the solo in Bembeya while you were living in France.

Yes, yes. Exactly. You follow everything.

And the horn section is sounding great too. Let's talk about some of the songs you are recording. Tell me about "Sabou."

"Sabou" is the cause of something. For example, we can say that our arrival here is thanks to someone, Christian Mousset. That's "Sabou," the cause that makes something happen. The cause of my coming here, or of my happiness. Our sabou here is Christian Mousset.

Good. And who wrote that?

That was Sekouba [Bambino Diabate].

So in the 1980s sometime.

Yes. Because Sekouba came to the group in 1982.

Then, "Bapier."

That's a love song, but in the language of the forest. It starts in a classic style and it goes to the rhythm of the forest.

And what does the title mean?

I don't know the signification. The person who gave us that song is no longer in the band. It was Diagbe Traore.

Then "Bembeya International."

That's a composition from Demba. 1965, I think. The song talks about Bembeya, the band. The band is now national and international. From Guinea. If you come to Conakry, Bembeya is there.

Then there was another 6/8 song, "Akukuwe."

Okay, that's a social song. It comes from a circumcision ceremony. It's tradition. That was Nagna Mory Kouyate who wrote that song.

There's more of the rhythm of the forest there, eh?

There are two rhythms.

What about "Lefa."

This is like "Akoukouwe." It also comes from the circumcision ritual. Same thing. But that's a song by Aboubacar Demba. That's also very old. 1970. We can go over the others tomorrow.

That's fine. We've done a lot tonight!

Thank you, and be sure to greet all of America. Vive l'Amerique! Vive la Guinea!

Interview by Banning Eyre!!! THANK YOU!!!

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