University Challenge has stopped asking questions about jazz. I’m not suggesting that’s deliberate policy but I have a feeling that the maxim “out of sight, out of mind” applies. You don’t miss what you got until it’s gone.
A few weeks ago, though, Mr Paxman did mention an issue I’ve never been aware of. Apparently, in the world of classical music it’s a well known fact (albeit hearsay and anecdotal) that composers write 8 ½ symphonies and then die. This could be no more than an intellectual myth, but it could explain why the sonata, fugue, concerto and folk tune are so popular; the inference is that composers can write as many as they like of those without detriment to their health. Medical advice and common sense is, therefore, to stop at the eighth symphony otherwise the ninth could be unfinished.
Another well-known fact about death is that we all have about 3 billion heartbeats and then we die. I think I mentioned this in an earlier blog. By extrapolation (or some other statistical device) I calculate that one symphony is equivalent to 333,333,333.33 heart beats if the nine are finished, or 375,000,000 if the composer is wise enough to quit while he or she is ahead.
We all know the phrase “See Venice and die.” If the aphorism is true, then Venice must be the equivalent of 3 billion heartbeats or 8 finished symphonies. This means that 1 symphony is worth 1/8th of Venice, or more appositely, 20 square miles. By interpretation, 1 square mile is worth 18, 750,000 heartbeats, or 1/20th of a symphony.
Take it one step further. The City of London is one square mile, making it worth no more than 1/20th of a finished symphony. So we can state an equation: City of London = 1/20th of a symphony.
As a rough estimate, the City of London financial industry must employ some 30,000 bankers. This means that 1 banker is worth a single note of music (and that’s being generous by rounding up). Arithmetic has never been my strength, so I could have the odd decimal point in the wrong place but I think my theory is proven – it would take 600,000 bankers to be worth Eroica. As a final thought, one banker is, therefore, worth no more than a few flakes of skin excoriated from Napoleon’s backside.
Still feel good about your job, Mr King?
Jazz returns on my next posting. Happy New Year to all my readers (me).
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