Cambodian Rock Band (Lauren Yee)
Arguably my favorite form of Art and Entertainment is live theatre; that’s why I’m writing these, that’s why I studied it, that’s why I want it to be my career. However, my current job keeps me more distant from theatre than I’d like: both because I work a lot of nights and weekends, and also because I don’t make enough money to pay for tickets frequently. So I read plays, because even though I can’t get what I really want, I can accept an imitation of it.
I was given a copy of Lauren Yee’s Cambodian Rock Band by my friend Chelsea, and I hadn’t read it yet, but it was playing in Houston and I managed to get a ticket. So I got to do a thing I never get to do: watch a play and then read the script.
It’s hard to not hear the production I was read the play, and while I think I would have liked the script if I read it as is, I love it so much more as its living, breathing self.
Cambodian Rock Band has some elements of Tea which I read earlier this week, though while Tea had moments of expats struggling to relate to their children in their new country, Cambodian Rock Band features the child trying to understand a parent’s past that the parent would rather protect the child from.
We start in 2008, but that’s not really true, we actually start in 1975 with an unknown Cambodian Rock Band, although our narrator for the evening would have you believe that we start with him and him alone as he holds court in a liminal space. Those three time periods crashing together are good symbols for this show which asks you to consider which story matters: the one of the historical figure who’s done notable things or that of the quiet and obscure citizen for whom the world knows little?
We open with a song from a fictional rock band, written by an actual rock band, Dengue Fever, before being told that they were wiped from culture’s memory during the reign of the Khmer Rouge, then we find ourselves in 2008 where American-born Neary is working (in unspecified capacity) on the case against Duch, the warden and chief torturer of the Khmer Rogue’s main prison, who was apprehended nine years ago after twenty years in hiding.
Her father, Chum, surprises her and embarrasses her while trying to get her to ignore the case. In short order it’s shown that Neary considers herself to be a disappointment in her father’s eyes for not going to law school, while Chum is afraid of modern Cambodia and intent on getting Neary home. These early scenes are filled with big laughs tinged by tension as we know something terrible is on the horizon.
Somewhere early in the first act we’re told that our charismatic narrator is Duch himself, and he insists that this story is all about him, because what isn’t? Neary realizes that her father is an as-of-yet-unknown survivor of the terrible prison and wants him to testify against Duch. When Chum won’t, she disappears, and that’s when Chum starts telling his story.
It’s 1975 and Chum asks his family to wait on fleeing to Paris until he and his band, the Cyclos, can finish their album. It’s a decision that will end in Chum’s family being killed and Chum being tortured. The band finishes, but it’s too late and the Amercian’s have pulled out and the Khmer Rouge has taken over.
We flash forward to 1978 where Chum is a prisoner being tortured by his former bandmate, turned convenient communist, Leng. Before long Duch takes an active interest in Chum’s case, and Chum eventually escapes.
I wouldn’t want to reveal more than I have already, but in addition to asking “whose story is it,” this play also examines the burden of unforgivable choices: someone has to do something beyond the pale, and it’s just a question of who does it first. Yes, the situation was untenable but even if you have to, how do you justify it? It’s still bad karma no matter what.
The play is a wonderful piece of historic fiction: tells a story that is relatively unknown (in America,) takes it seriously, presents it with empathy and compassion, and it shows why it’s relevant today without relying on being too modern (like my own work or Lauren Gunderson’s.)
I loved the script, but if you have any chance at all, see the show.
