On Cambodian Rocks, a compilation of Cambodian psych rock from the 70s

Few genres of music are as well-travelled as the psych-rock of the seventies. Driving four-piece rhythm sections led by noodly pedal-pressed guitars seemed to have sprouted all over the world in the seventies, and created unique indigenous scenes in places those of us with a Eurocentric / America-centric view of the world (most of us, unfortunately) would least expect to find them. I've previously spoken with deep admiration about Zambia's Zamrock scene, particularly Amanaz's Africa and WITCH's Lazy Bones. That scene met its end when the administration that provided it a stage soured on it as the global price of copper collapsed, taking Zambia's fledgling post-colonial economy with it. A similar but much bloodier fate awaited Cambodia's rich local psych rock scene in 1975 when the Khmer Rouge came to power. Cambodian Rocks compiles the music from the scene, made by the era’s musicians, most of whom were killed by the Khmer Rouge, who sought to purge society of its intellectuals and artists, seeing them as one of the key enemies of their vision of an ascendant communist society. 

So complete was the Khmer Rouge’s artistic purge (which was part of a genocide in which 25% of the country was killed) that at the time of this compilation’s initial 1996 release by Parallel Worlds, all the songs and bands were unidentified: it was essentially an uncredited bootleg. When the album was rereleased in 2003, it had a similarly anonymous tracklist. This led to obvious ethical questions about the label’s lack of efforts to attribute and pay royalties to the families of the artists the collection featured, such as the ones asked in this review of the reissued album by Mack Hagood in the Far East Audio Review. 

For the uninitiated, the 1996 LP was an early example of the anonymous-Whitey-finds-weird-Asian-music phenomenon. No artist names, no song titles, no band pictures, just a charcoal rubbing from Angkor Wat and a blurb describing a traveler's discovery of the psychedelic-era Cambodian circle dance music on the record. The record was an artifact [sic] from a mysterious place and an instant classic.

Last year saw a re-issue of Cambodian Rocks, this time on CD with several cuts added. Incredibly, there are still no artist names, still no song titles, still no pictures... and presumably still no royalties paid to any surviving artists or their families.

It’s obvious that the lack of enforceable copyright laws allowed for this sort of blatant bootlegging. But it’s also obvious that the lack of such laws allowed for this music to travel in the first place. It’s an ethical dilemma: one I’ll leave readers to resolve in their own minds. Thankfully, in the years since 2003, attribution issues have been resolved, thanks in large part to internet sleuths and the documentary film Don’t Think I’ve Forgotten, soon to be discussed here. 

Cambodian Rocks can be seen through two lenses. One, through the lens of historical significance, which is the lens through which I’ve shown it to you so far. Two, through the lens of its being great music, which it absolutely is. Throughout the album, there are uniquely Cambodian scales and vocal stylings overlaid on the sort of American psych-rock that must’ve flowed in from neighbouring Vietnam during the American War there. There are also interesting cover-adjacent gems like Yol Aularong’s Yuvajon Kouge Jet, clearly modeled on Them’s Gloria and Sinn Sisamouth’s Srolanh Srey Touch, a uniquely Cambodian take on Santana’s Black Magic Woman. Every song – even the covers – springs a welcome surprise or two, making for a wonderful musical journey, despite the album’s sordid backstory. All in all, it’s hard not to be taken in by its almost cheerful rhythm, while also being mindful of the tragedies that befell most of the artists featured in it, and the people of their country. Ros Serey Sothea disappeared in the late seventies and was almost certainly killed by the Khmer Rouge. It’s the same story for Pen Ran. And for Sinn Sisamouth, the most famous of the recording artists featured on this collection. None of their remains have been found. 

I struggle to think of a way to end this piece. Any comment on the music this album contains feels like slight to the people who lost their lives. Any comment on the album’s historical significance takes away from the quality of the music for what is ostensibly an album recommendation. Some things – many things – are bigger than music, bigger than art. Maybe there’s just no way to end this piece other than to just stop typing.