Nicholas Reid reflects in essay form on general matters and ideas related to literature, history, popular culture and the arts. You are free to agree or disagree with him.
QUIZZES
Forgive me but, for the second
week in a row, I must begin in autobiographical and anecdotal mode.
Recently my eldest daughter and
her husband invited me to a fund-raising quiz evening, being held by their
local primary school. They thought (probably wrongly) that I might be good at
general knowledge and arcane historical and literary stuff. But then they heard
that the quiz was going to be based on music. Okay. I would at least be able to
answer for their team some of the questions on opera and orchestral music and
jazz and even some of the older specimens of pop and rock.
The evening was being billed as
“The Ultimate Music Quiz”.
But what did this “Ultimate Music
Quiz” turn out to consist of?
It consisted of a chap who
fancied himself as a DJ playing brief clips of pop and rock drawn exclusively
from the last twenty years, and basically recognizable only to people who have
recently left teenager-hood. So bang went my hopes of showing my brilliance by
identifying the key in which the Rhenish Symphony was written, saying who
played the vibraphone in the Benny Goodman Quartet or naming the librettist for
The Daughter of the Regiment. To make
matters worse, teams didn’t have to guess what the music was, but simply voted
by electronic doo-dah whether it was A or B or C or D as suggested by the
wannabe DJ.
As a quiz, it reminded me of a
dumbed-down multi-choice exam, as opposed to a real exam.
Needless to say, I found it a
long evening. So did my daughter and son-in-law, who were somewhat apologetic
about roping me in. The only time I contributed anything of value to the team
was when I was able to give (from a multi-choice selection) the correct date of
the first publication of The Great Gatsby
– a question presumably asked only because there has recently been a terrible
film adaptation thereof, possibly as bad as the one made in the 1970s, but
appealing more overtly to those who have only recently left teenager-hood.
Rumour says that the team which
won the evening’s “quiz” had at their table an Auckland publication’s pop music
“critic”. I can’t get grumpy about this winning strategy, however. I am not an
habitual attender of quiz-nights, but about fifteen years ago, when I was still
a regular film reviewer, I do remember being invited by some colleagues to join
their table at a Trivial Pursuit night when they had been forewarned that there
was going to be a special round on movies. On the team’s behalf, I answered all
the cinematic questions correctly, we won the night by a whisker and each
member of the team went home having won $30 and a bottle of wine. A good
evening’s haul.
So I’m not complaining.
But as I went home after the
“Ultimate Music Quiz” I was filled with dark and terrible thoughts. “What a horrible waste of intellectual energy,”
I thought, “memorising the names of
garbage like the pop music of the last twenty years. Who cares what the name
was of the group which recorded one piece of mediocre rubbish indistinguishable
from another piece of mediocre rubbish?” People who bothered themselves
about such things were obviously much inferior to me on the cultural scale. I
thought in the same terms of tales I’d heard of fanatical sports fans,
memorising and quizzing each other on the winning scores of Ranfurly Shield
challenges, or the winners and losers and dates of the Paris Open.
So, grumpily, I went to bed,
convinced of the degeneracy of the fund-raising quiz night I had just attended.
But when I woke the following
morning an obvious thought occurred to me, which had been blotted out by my
dyspepsia the previous night.
After all, it takes no more wit,
insight or intellectual energy to memorise the names of Nobel Prize winners in
Chemistry, Booker Prize winners, characters in the novels of Balzac or Proust,
rationalist or empirical philosophers, or creators of great works of art than
it does to memorise the winners and losers of tennis matches, the songs
that were on the Top 40 ten years ago, the exact date of the death of Amy
Winehouse or what Lady Gaga’s latest million-seller was. Memorising names,
dates and facts is a fairly mechanical process. The people who could key into
the pop and rock music of the last twenty years were no stupider than me. They
just had different interests.
There’s another side to this too.
Eons ago, there used to be (and for aught I know may still be) a conservative
American publication called Films in
Review, which gave embarrassingly silly reviews of films but which
contained excellent retrospective articles on directors, actors and so forth,
complete with filmographies and dates. One of its early features was a column
called (I think) “Coffee, Brandy and Cigars”, being quizzes on who directed or
starred in or scripted what classic films and when. The very title suggested
that this sort of quizzing was really the idle chatter of people with spare
time to burn and long evenings to fill.
In my life, I have known at least
some people who think that the recall of such things is real cultural capital.
They can say what novel was adapted by which director into which classic film
and what actress was called in at the last moment to star when what other
actress was unavailable. Having a strong and retentive memory is a good thing,
and certainly helpful if you are going to synthesize your memory knowledge into
a logical argument or thesis of some sort.
I resist people who foolishly
object to academic examinations because they are mere “memory work”. A
well-stocked memory is essential to any academic learning. But the memory of
discrete data alone is only the first step in real reasoning or thought.
So, says my mature judgement, a
factual quiz on ephemeral pop music is no more nor less intelligent a pastime
that a factual quiz on Booker Prize winners. But it probably does say something
about the cultural company you keep.
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