From The Cambodian Space Project to The Green Mist
The journey begins with a mist. Back in those early days, it was The Green Mist that formed the music and guided the ship. I was living in Tasmania, dreaming up sounds that could carry stories over the wild seas and into uncharted territory. The music was atmospheric, born from the rocks and forests of Tasmania, and the songs were meant to transport us somewhere else—places that felt ancient and otherworldly. The bouzouki, the harmonica, and that old lap steel were the instruments of choice for this new journey.
Then one day, the mist took me to Cambodia. I landed in Phnom Penh with a mission that wasn’t even clear to myself: to find something real, something that felt like life in all its chaos and beauty. It wasn’t long before I found myself deep in a recording session, not just with any musicians, but with a Khmer ensemble led by Yun Theara, a master musician. These were the first steps—a makeshift studio, traditional Khmer instruments, and that beautiful drone of the bouzouki merging with Cambodian melodies. When we added Ouch Savy’s voice, something magical happened. Her voice was raw, soaring, timeless. It felt like a bridge between worlds, a song that could reach back into history and bring something to the present.
And that’s what I fell in love with—Cambodia’s music wasn’t just songs. It was the stories behind them. It was the lives that these songs had touched, uplifted, and ultimately shattered. I began to learn about the Golden Era of Cambodian music, a time in the 1960s when the country was alive with creativity, a moment when rock ‘n’ roll met traditional Khmer rhythms and created something entirely new. There was Ros Sereysothea, the “Golden Voice of the Royal Capital.” There was Pan Ron, the enigmatic and fearless spirit, and Sinn Sisamouth, the king of it all—the Cambodian Sinatra. They sang songs of love, of heartbreak, of hope, and they sang these songs knowing full well they were walking on the edge of something much darker.
The Khmer Rouge came, and everything changed. These musicians—the bright, shining lights of a cultural revolution—became enemies of the state. Their voices were silenced in the most brutal ways. Ros Sereysothea, with her beautiful, bell-like voice, was taken into the killing fields, and her fate was lost to history. Pan Ron was said to have been forced into hard labor before disappearing entirely. Sinn Sisamouth was executed, likely after singing one final song. These weren’t just deaths; they were deliberate attempts to erase culture, to silence joy and defiance.
And yet, their music survived. Bootleg cassettes, old vinyl records hidden during the years of terror, somehow made their way out of that darkness. The songs—those defiant, joyous, aching songs—started to reach the outside world, and they reached me. It wasn’t just about covering these songs or reimagining them—it was about giving these voices new life, letting them breathe again, letting them be heard. That’s how The Cambodian Space Project was born.
When Channthy joined, it all clicked into place. She was like those singers from the past—a voice that carried pain, joy, rebellion. She grew up in a village, far from the bright lights of Phnom Penh, working in rice fields before making her way to the city. She had that same quality that Ros Sereysothea had—a kind of vulnerability mixed with a fierce spirit. Together, we started to build something that wasn’t just a band; it was a celebration of everything that Cambodian music had been and could be. We were pulling the past into the future, honoring it while making it our own.
We played everywhere, from bars in Phnom Penh and remote Cambodian villages to the world’s stage. We carried these songs, these stories, on set-lists across the planet. But it wasn’t just about the music—it was about the lives behind those songs. It was about honoring the ones who came before us, the ones who were silenced, and giving them a voice again.
Channthy’s voice was the heart of The Cambodian Space Project, and when we lost her in 2018, it was like the light went out. Her death felt so connected to the often untimely and tragic deaths of all the great Khmer singers before her. It was another reminder of how fragile life is, especially for those who dare to sing, to speak out, to live brightly. But the music didn’t stop there. It couldn’t. The Cambodian Space Project continued—different, but alive.
First came drummer Bong Sak’s daughter Nang Ye-Ye with her powerhouse rock’n’soul vocal on “Smoking Addict,” then many other great voices, mostly joining me at our Yellow Sub Studios at Fish Island, Kampot. The most recent example of this is Ahwin, an absolutely brilliant vocalist who joined CSP’s Australian tour earlier this year. But now it’s me returning to singing and fronting a band—it’s a daunting but exciting prospect, that’s for sure.
And now, after all this time, I find myself returning to The Green Mist. I pick up my bouzouki, the one that started it all, and it feels like coming home. I’m singing those old songs again, the ones that brought me to Cambodia in the first place. And I’m writing new ones—The Barbarian Ship, a rock’n’roll musical about Tasmanian convicts who stole a ship and sailed to Japan. It’s a story about rebellion, about freedom, about the courage to set sail into the unknown. It’s the same spirit that took me to Cambodia, that brought the CSP together, that kept us going through the highs and the lows.
The music carries me, it always has. From Tasmania to Phnom Penh, from the ghosts of the past to the promise of the future. The Green Mist is back, and we’re creating something wild and wonderful, something full of life. It’s about the journey, about the people you meet along the way, about the songs that stay with you long after the music has stopped playing. And it’s about keeping the light alive, no matter what.
Get ready, because The Green Mist is taking over George Lane. Mark those dates: October 9, 16, 23, 30. This isn’t just a band—it’s a raucous musical journey you don’t want to miss.
Julien Poulson leads this killer line-up featuring Lisa Wood, Julitha Ryan, Bronwyn Henderson, Brett Poliness, Stuart Robertson, and the Lawler brothers, Peter and Craig. Expect raw psych-folk energy, soaring vocals, and powerful jams that will shake you to your core.
These aren’t just shows—they’re electrifying, midweek baptisms of rock’n’roll chaos. The Green Mist at George Lane is your ticket to the wild side – free passage aboard The Barbarian Ship.
Book now: https://www.trybooking.com/events/landing/1278495