Dinner party music.

Beethoven, back on Earth in the twenty-first century and reincarnated as his hearing self, was walking along a street when suddenly from the speakers of some passing open car came sufficient notes of Cantata on the Death of Emperor Joseph II that he recognised his own unpublished composition. He was horrified. A sudden terrible thought struck him, already confused by the motorised monsters (albeit that a late-eighteenth century mind could reasonably deduce that self-powered vehicles, already more than a mechanical chimera, may have advanced). The more dreadful thought that struck Beethoven was that perhaps the music of the spheres had always been there for the taking; that time might even run backwards, and that he had merely been a medium, a conduit, for plucking a series of notes from this hellish place and time and transtemporising them to a reverse future residing in the urbanely familiar eighteenth century. He had defeated time, apparently. But the cacophony, notwithstanding that its component notes were in order, had sounded like a nightingale’s song cawed by a rook.

Naturally, Ludwig von Beethoven entreated God to deafen him again. 

Beethoven was wrong. Time moves only one way. The tune came from his head (divinely-inspired perhaps). Music, conveniently invented and promulgated, eventually became decor, like too many curtains, and overbearing wallpaper, and pointless pictures of scenery on the walls of a house in a forested valley behind which rose mountains of blue mist.