FILM: ‘Don’t Think I’ve Forgotten: Cambodia’s Lost Rock and Roll’
Cambodia, in the minds of most Westerners, is a place of fear, cruelty, and intense poverty: think the savagery of the communist Khmer Rouge regime, the brutal dictatorship of Pol Pot, and the horrors of the killing fields, where roughly a quarter of the Cambodian population perished in the mid- to late-’70s. While these atrocities will haunt the country for centuries to come, they aren’t the only story of Cambodia. Between gaining its independence from France in 1953 and the Khmer Rouge’s rise into power in 1975, Cambodia was a remarkably forward-thinking, optimistic country, particularly in its affluent and cosmopolitan capital city of Phnom Penh. And, like most countries in the ’60s with a modern spirit, steady foreign influence, and lots of young people, it fell in love with rock ‘n’ roll.
The new documentary Don’t Think I’ve Forgotten: Cambodia’s Lost Rock and Roll (directed by John Pirozzi) captures this side of the country unknown to most foreigners, featuring interviews with musicians, fans, and political figures who participated in this golden age. There are even a few photographs and snippets of live performances dating from the era, although the Khmer Rouge’s subsequent destruction of anything arts-related means these limited visuals are heavily supplemented with stock footage, subtle recreations, paintings, animation, evocative shadow puppetry, and B-roll of Phnom Penh’s distinctive, gorgeous architecture. Luckily, the music managed to survive.
The story begins with Sinn Sisamouth, generally considered to be the father of Cambodian pop music, who married the style and arrangements of chanson singers like Édith Piaf with traditional Khmer-inflected melody lines. Sinn and his female counterpart, Ros Serey Sothea, were the country’s most famous singers, with a romantic, sophisticated sound that complemented the upward mobility of a newly independent Cambodia. Naturally, rock ‘n’ roll soon followed. Baksei Cham Krong, generally credited as the country’s first guitar band, modeled themselves on Cliff Richard & the Shadows, down to copying their onstage choreography. Emerging Cambodian musicians were also inspired by Afro-Cuban rhythms and French pop-rockers like Johnny Hallyday and Sylvie Vartan. As the decade progressed, and American soldiers fighting in Vietnam played their records on Armed Forces radio, the Cambodian rock scene mirrored the Western world in developing a harder sound, gathering influence from the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and Santana, as well as soul and R&B artists like Wilson Pickett.
One of the most fascinating things about Don’t Think I’ve Forgotten is the diversity of music on display, from the lush ballads of Sinn Sisamouth and Ros Serey Sothea (both of whom also recorded in a variety of rock styles), to the yé-yé-inflected pop of Pan Ron, to the psychedelic wails and satirical lyrics of Yol Aularong. At times, the Cambodian version of rock ‘n’ roll comes across as a fourth-generation Xerox of the original American sounds, passed through so many customs offices en route that it’s almost unrecognizable by the time it arrives. Other times, the Cambodian interpretation is eerily spot-on, as with a version of “Oye Como Va” that only reveals itself as a cover when the Khmer-language singer opens his mouth. Even as the music gets tougher and the rockers’ hair gets longer, however, the Cambodian music scene retains its sense of aspirational elegance. Even the hippies are impeccably turned out.
While Don’t Think I’ve Forgotten shines a well-deserved light on this music, it also uses the international language of rock ‘n’ roll as a conduit to connect Western audiences to Cambodia’s cultural and political struggles. The ruler Prince Norodom Sihanouk, a patron of the arts and lover of music, was deposed in a bloodless coup in 1970; the replacement government, the Khmer Republic, was suspicious of foreign influence and drove the rock scene underground, to secret house parties and daytime nightclubs. Far worse, however, was the reign of the Khmer Rouge, which controlled the country from 1975 to 1979. Artists, educated people, urbanites, and anyone with foreign connections were deemed a threat to the newly rural, agrarian society. All were forced to slave on communal farms, dying from overwork and malnutrition, if they weren’t murdered outright. The most famous singers were especially at risk, as their faces were too recognizable to blend in with the anonymous collective. Sinn Sisamouth, Ros Serey Sothea, and Pan Ron were among the many who died in the killing fields or disappeared under mysterious circumstances, never to be found.
On the surface, Don’t Think I’ve Forgotten falls in line with the recent trend of documentaries dedicated to recognizing overlooked musicians who never quite got their due. (Think The Wrecking Crew, to use one example still in theaters.) Yet these Cambodian musicians aren’t just dwelling in obscurity; they are quite literally lost, having been murdered and persecuted by their government. The result is far darker than a feel-good Oscar winner like Searching for Sugar Man or Twenty Feet From Stardom, yet also more thought-provoking. Don’t Think I’m Forgotten wants to introduce audiences to Cambodian rock not just for the sake of the music itself, but also to memorialize the people who made it, and to defy the tyranny that strove to suppress it.
