Musik & Kultur

There is something peculiar about listening to Yankee Hotel Foxtrot with the dates in mind. Wilco recorded the album largely before September 11, 2001, and delivered it to Reprise in the middle of that year. Yet when the record finally received its conventional release in April 2002, it seemed uncannily suited to the world in which it arrived. Songs were filled with damaged communication, weary affection, American imagery, mechanical interference and moments of almost casual dread. “Jesus, Etc.” contained images of shaking tall buildings and escaping voices. Another song was called “Ashes of American Flags.” The album itself ended with a mysterious radio voice repeating the words “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot” through a growing wall of noise. None of this was written in response to September 11, yet after September 11 it became nearly impossible for listeners not to hear at least some of it through that experience. Contemporary and retrospective criticism alike noticed the effect. The catastrophe seemed to have placed a new frame around music that already existed.

It is tempting, for that reason, to treat Yankee Hotel Foxtrot as a prophetic record: an album that somehow sensed what was about to happen. But prophecy is probably the least interesting explanation for what makes it feel so historically charged. Wilco did not anticipate the attacks, and some of the album’s supposedly ominous imagery becomes much less mysterious once the chronology is restored. The better question is why music created before the rupture sounded so natural after it. That question points beyond coincidence and into the cultural atmosphere from which the album emerged. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot was made during a period when several transformations were already underway at once: the high confidence of the late 1990s had begun to coexist with increasingly visible unease; rock musicians were pulling familiar songwriting forms apart with noise, electronics and studio manipulation; analog and digital recording technologies were overlapping; and the old record-industry machinery was beginning to collide with a new world in which music could circulate through the Internet whether labels understood the implications or not. September 11 did not create all of those tensions. It made some of them suddenly easier to see.

Der er noget lettere besynderligt ved Louis Armstrongs plads i amerikansk kultur.

Armstrong kom fra en musikalsk verden, der i dag næsten føles arkæologisk: brassbands fra New Orleans, ragtime, blues, vaudeville, flodbåde, marchorkestertraditioner og den kollektive improvisation i den tidligste jazz. Hans mentor var Joe "King" Oliver. Han indspillede med musikere som Kid Ory og Johnny Dodds. Jelly Roll Morton og Sidney Bechet tilhørte omtrent den samme pionergeneration.

Alligevel fortsatte Armstrong på en eller anden måde.

Ikke blot i den forstand, at han blev ved med at arbejde. Han forblev berømt.

I 1950'erne optrådte han i film og på tv. I 1964, som 62-årig, nåede hans indspilning af "Hello, Dolly!" førstepladsen på den amerikanske pophitliste og skubbede midlertidigt Beatles væk fra toppen midt under Beatlemania. Tre år senere indspillede han "What a Wonderful World", den sang, som for mange lyttere i dag er mere genkendelig end noget fra hans revolutionerende jazzindspilninger fra 1920'erne.

Det rejser et interessant historisk spørgsmål.

Hvorfor Armstrong?

Hvorfor nåede én musiker fra denne oprindelige New Orleans-jazzkultur så meget længere ind i den brede amerikanske populærkultur end næsten alle andre, der kom ud af den?

Armstrong var ikke bogstaveligt talt den sidste overlevende fra den tidlige jazz. Nogle af hans samtidige levede næsten lige så længe eller længere. Han var heller ikke den eneste forbløffende musiker, kulturen frembragte. Men han synes at have opnået noget sjældnere: Han undslap at blive indespærret i sin egen historiske periode.