Chronicle & Humor: Bernard, Karaoke Star of Cambodia

Bernard has sung the same Khmer song at the same karaoke bar for three years. He still doesn't understand a single word of it. In his own eyes, he's a local star — a title that, in his mind, now sits right alongside King of the Bar Stool.

Illustration photo only — © Cambodge Mag

Choosing the Repertoire

Bernard discovered his signature song one night, by chance, three years ago, on the enthusiastic suggestion of a waitress who probably just wanted him to stop hogging the mic for a French song. Ever since, it's been like clockwork: by his second drink, Bernard demands "his" song, the one he never introduces as anything other than "the Khmer hit, you know, the one I always do." Nobody knows if he knows the title. Neither does he, probably — in his defense, he already struggles with his usual eleven words of Khmer, so an entire song title is asking a fish to ride a bicycle.

The Performance

Bernard sings phonetically, syllable by syllable, with a confidence that absolutely none of those syllables warrant. He closes his eyes during the parts he deems "moving," raises an arm toward the ceiling at the chorus as if hailing some deity, and delivers a vibrato no singing teacher, no karaoke machine, and quite possibly no law of acoustics has ever endorsed. The song is, in fact, about a market vendor who lost his bicycle. Bernard sings it as though it were a national anthem, or perhaps a funeral rite for said bicycle.

The Personal Legend

After every performance, Bernard steps down from the small stage — two steps, which he always negotiates a beat behind his own feet — convinced he's "won over the room." "They love me here, I'm kind of the neighborhood mascot," he confides to whoever will listen, nodding toward the bar owner who, in reality, stopped actually listening to him sing a long time ago, busy polishing a glass to a shine that could double as a mirror.

The Contradiction

One evening, a Cambodian friend of Sophea's, watching the performance for the first time, bursts out laughing right in the middle of the chorus — not a polite chuckle, a real fit of laughter, the kind that nearly sends his beer out through his nose. Bernard, offended, steps down from the stage (two steps, a beat behind) and asks what's so funny. "Sorry, sorry, but you're singing it like it's tragic, like the end of your life, when it's actually a pretty silly song about a guy who lost his bike, there's nothing serious about it." Bernard insists, one hand on his heart: "No, there's a hidden meaning, I feel it when I sing it." The friend, still in stitches, tears in his eyes: "The hidden meaning is that he lost his bike and he's late for the market, Bernard, that's it. There's no deeper layer, it's written for six-year-olds." For the first time in three years, Bernard is left speechless, drink in hand, mouth slightly open, as if he'd just been told, live, that Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, and artisanal Cambodian comté all turned out not to exist either.

After-Sales Service

Bernard, thrown off but never defeated, climbs back on stage ten minutes later for an encore — nobody asked him to, he decided this alone, in the quiet of his own inner reflection, washed down with a seventh Anchor. He sings the same song, with the same earnest seriousness, but slips in between two verses, a little quieter than usual, almost like a confession: "Okay fine, it's a bike, but I feel it differently." Nobody comments. Backstage, the bar owner exchanges an amused glance with Sophea's friend — a look that says roughly: "we've finally got the historic moment we've been waiting three years for."

The Tally

A month later, Bernard still sings the same song, just as loudly, but now with a little preamble, addressed to anyone who'll listen: "So yes, technically, it's the story of a lost bike, but I bring my own interpretation to it." A reframing that, on closer inspection, changes absolutely nothing about the facts — the bike is still lost, the vendor is still late, the song is still written for six-year-olds — but which, in Bernard's mind, closes the case as definitively as an international peace treaty.