CPA Media

By the time the tuk-tuk reached Phnom Penh Island Club, the sky was already rusting over with twilight. A cottony haze hung above the Bassac River, where dragonflies hovered like stage lights testing the water. Onshore, the pulse of a Farfisa organ shimmered through the palms. March 21, 2025—nine years since their last Cambodian show—Dengue Fever was back.

Chew & Bash, the island's semi-mythical music den, had transformed into a fever dream of its own. A bohemian hybrid of boatyard chic and jungle speakeasy, the club's bamboo stage overlooked a motley dancefloor of expats, locals, and returning Khmer rock romantics, some in bell-bottoms, others in the faded uniforms of Phnom Penh's art scene.

“Saumsvakom (Welcome) Dengue Fever!” a voice boomed from the mic, summoning cheers that rippled across the river. The band stepped out into the sticky night, greeted by the kind of welcome usually reserved for returning ghosts.

Formed in Los Angeles in the early 2000s, Dengue Fever had always been something of a cultural time machine. Their sound—equal parts 1960s Cambodian psych-rock, California surf noir, and hypnotic pop—was less about nostalgia and more a kind of sonic reincarnation. At their heart was the soaring voice of Chhom Nimol, a Long Beach transplant from Battambang whose vocals carried the spectral beauty of lost Khmer stars like Ros Serey Sothea and Pan Ron.

Tonight, she wore a sequined gold dress that caught every flicker of candlelight from the tiki torches lining the venue. Her voice, still bright with Khmer soul but seasoned with American grit, slid through the opening bars of “Seeing Hands,” turning the air electric.

For the band, the return wasn't just a gig—it was a pilgrimage.

“Cambodia isn't just where the music comes from,” says guitarist Zac Holtzman. “It's where the spirit of what we do was born. Every time we come back, it's like resetting the compass.”

That compass pointed straight to the heart of a country still finding harmony between past and present. The crowd was young—many too young to remember the vintage vinyl Dengue Fever—but they danced like they knew. A girl in a Khmer New Wave T-shirt sang every word in Nimol's language. Nearby, an old man nodded along, his hand tapping out the beat on a glass of beer like a nostalgia-drifting drummer.

“Phnom Penh was the first place that Dengue Fever played outside of the U.S.,” says American bass guitarist Senon Williams. “So it always feels like a homecoming to return. Most American bands dream of touring Europe one day, but playing in a shanty house on the edge of the Tonle Sap to a packed-sweaty house of Cambodians and expats was our first experience outside of the States. It was incredible.”

The setlist was a kaleidoscope: “Tiger Phone Card” curled with bittersweet expat yearning, “One Thousand Tears of a Tarantula” sent waves of surf fuzz over the Mekong, and a surprise cover of Sinn Sisamouth's “Champa Battambang” had even the bar staff clapping above their heads.

Then came “Sni Bong,” the anthem, the bridge between continents. The crowd erupted. For a moment, Phnom Penh wasn't a city rebuilding its dreams. It was the capital of a cosmic rock 'n' roll kingdom.

When the encore bled into midnight, the band lingered, reluctant to let go. Chhom Nimol stood at the front of the stage, hands pressed together, bowing low.

“Chomreab lea (Goodbye), and Thank you. We've missed you so much.”

Back across the river, the city lights twinkled like another universe entirely. But on this little island, history and hope had danced together again—thanks to a band that never stopped believing the past could sing.

Story by Joe Cummings; Photo by Dugmoore