Four Masters

This morning Sambor (pronouced Sambo) and I visited the Bassac community, which is a slum neighborhood on the edge of Phnom Penh. The Bassac Theater, destroyed by a mysterious fire some years ago, was once an importatn venue for traditional Cambodian drama and the music that accompanied it. Many of the Cambodian Living Arts (CLA) master teachers live there along with their students, and many of their classes are held their too.

Sambor, a young Cambodian man who works for CLA, was kind enough to translate for me when meeting with thew masters and their students. We parked the car and walked through the dirt and gravel streets of the community, which mostly consists of corrugated metal and wood homes, with many familky members crowded into each. The poverty heree has no equivalent in the United States, and I have to constantly remind myself that so much of humanity lives on as little as these people do. And it makes it all the more remarkable that this is the focus of a renewal of the arts in Cambodia.

Sambor and I first went to visit Tep Mori's pin peat class. It was held in a tile-floored room, and there were about a dozen young students sitting on the floor with their instruments. Pin peat is a form of court music, used for formal ceremonies as well as certain dances in Cambodia. The ensemble typically consists of several large drums (sko thom), three or four wooden xylophones (roneat), and several circular metallophones (gong). The students were mostly girls, between nine and fifteen years old, and they played together extremely well. All the songs they know they learned by rote memorization from their teacher, as no notation system is widely used in Cambodia. When I asked them what they enjoyed most about studying traditional music, the students replied that they got a chance to learn "precious knowledge"about their culture from great teachers. I think all too often I have taken for granted what I have learned in school, but the spirit of these students reminded me how precious it is to learn. Tep Mori had clearly trained her young students very well, and she remarked how important it is to pass down the musical traditions to the next generation.

We then headed over to Kong Nai's house. Blind from the age of four, Kong Nai began to study chapei dong veng when he was thirteen at the behest of his uncle, who knew music would be a possible profession for someone who had lost his sight. His musical gifts are apparent in his dynamic chapei playing and in his soulful, improvised song. He's kind of a Cambodian blues man, and he often commands a lively social scene on his front porch. Kong Nai talked about his music for a little while, though it was hard to get an idea of how his class was run. One the whole, however, he displayed a much more casual and easy-going attitude than the other masters.

Sambor and I then went to visit Ki Mum's yike class, which was held on the third floor of an appartment building in dangerously poor repair. The class had about twenty-five students, with an even mix of girls and boys, ranging in age from nine to eighteen. Divided into groups of instrumentalists, singers, and dancers, the class performed a lengthly and complex piece. They sang and danced with vibrant enthusiasm, and I realized how wonderful it was to have young people dedicated to learning such ancient music. They studied six days a week to learn the songs and dances. I don't know enough about dance to write about it coherently, but I observe that Cambodian dance is very grounded in approach and prominently features highly stylized hand gestures, to the extent that the hands are almost always the center of attention. The more time I spend around this music and dance, the more I realize how much I love it.

The last class we visited was that of Ieng Sithul, a master teacher of wedding music. Because he is currently performing in the United States, his class was taught by two assistants, including Ieng's wife. This was the largest class I visited, with about forty students. It was also the most disciplined class, and I was deeply touched when they all stood up as we entered the room, palms joined in the traditional Khmer greeting. Wedding music has a particularly joyful sound, and the students played and sang with evident mirth and concentration. These were truly some of the best young musicians I had ever seen, and I was equally impressed with their dancing. For such a young program, the students seemed to be exceptionally well-trained.

After I had the chance to ask them questions about their art, the students asked me why I had come all the way to Cambodia to study Khmer music for a year. This was the first time I really had to think about this question, and the first time I had an experience that really showed me the answer. Music in Cambodia is not separate from the other arts, religions and the culture in general. Although the continuity of Cambodia's musical tradition was severely damaged by the Khmer Rouge and remains under threat by a lessening interest in traditional arts among the youth, I cannot hope to understand the culture withou understanding the music, and vice versa. When I come back, I will not know enough to really teach about Khmer music, but I think I will get a sense of how intertwined music and culture are, and how important music is to a healthy sense of identity and meaning in a country whose tragic history rendered life increasingly meaningless and painful. Music redeems us, and it challenges us to continually create new life and light where there was only death and darkness before.