But here’s where a curious discrepancy exists. Whereas new plays are eagerly embraced by noted theater directors, Pulitzer Prize-winning compositions tend to be quickly forgotten after their premiere. Consider the number of regional and community theaters that have produced “Angels in America,” “Doubt” or “August: Osage County.” In contrast, how often does one hear works such as Ellen Taaffe Zwilich’s “Symhony No. 1,”" Morton Gould’s “Stringmusic” or Jennifer Higdon’s’ “Violin Concerto,” Pulitzer winners all?

In the 70 years that the Pulitzer Prize has been awarded in music, surprisingly few winning compositions ever turn up on concert programs. Copland’s “Appalachian Spring” (1945) is a notable exception, having solidly entered the repertoire. And Barber’s “Piano Concerto” (1963) was long championed by its dedicatee, the late John Browning. What is one to make of this? Were the drama jurors unusually prescient in their selections? It would seem so, for plays such as “Our Town,” “Harvey,” “Death of a Salesman” and “Cat On a Hot Tin Roof” are regularly revived in theaters large and small.

The list doesn’t stop there, either. Other notable drama winners include “Picnic,” “The Diary of Anne Frank,” “The Gin Game,” “Fences,” “The Heidi Chronicles” and “Wit.” New and old happily coexist in the American theater. One wishes the same for the Pulitzer Prize winners in music. Aside from “Appalachian Spring” and Barber’s “Piano Concerto,” the only other winning composition I’ve heard live in concert is Ives’ “Symphony No. 3.”

And though I’ve become familiar with LaMontaine’s “Concerto for Piano and Orchestra,” Del Tredici’s “In Memory of a Summer Day” and Zwilich’s “Symphony No. 1,” I’ve only managed to do so through recordings. Furthermore, nearly a third of the compositions awarded a Pulitzer Prize have gone unrecorded. What of Piston’s Third and Seventh symphonies, winners in 1948 and 1961 respectively; Rouse’s “Trombone Concerto” (1993); Gould’s “Stringmusic” (1995) or Corigliano’s “Symphony No. 2 for String Orchestra” (2001)? Shouldn’t we look forward to performances of these works with the same curiosity with which we anticipate new plays?

The Pulitzer Web site, www. pulitzer.org, states that “The Pulitzer accolade … on the marquee of a theater where a prize-winning play is being staged usually does translate into commercial gain.” If past performance is any indication, we should soon expect to see performances of Doug Wright’s “I Am My Own Wife” (2004), David Lindsay-Abaire’s “Rabbit Hole” (2007) or Bruce Norris’ “Clybourne Park.” But it’s doubtful that Henry Brant’s “Ice Field” (2002), John Adams’ “On the Transmigration of Souls” (2003) or Steven Stucky’s “Second Concerto for Orchestra” (2005) will crop up on many orchestral concerts in the foreseeable future.

Were that to happen, these and other works that have been awarded the Pulitzer Prize in music might carry the same weight and importance that this honor means in drama, literature and journalism.

Victor Herbert, Kurt Weill, Meredith Willson and Charles Strouse are among the few who were not only classically trained but welcomed the opportunity to take an occasional break from the musical theater. The Irish-born Herbert, whose operettas “Naughty Marietta” and “Eileen” earned him international fame, played cello in the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra, conducted the Pittsburgh Symphony and was instrumental in establishing the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers (ASCAP). His two cello concertos are still occasionally heard today.

Weill is primarily remembered for “The Three Penny Opera” and “Lady in the Dark,” but he also made an impressive showing in the concert hall with his two symphonies, two string quartets, a cello sonata and a violin concerto. Willson got his start in the music business as an accomplished flutist who eventually wound up playing in Toscanini’s NBC Symphony Orchestra. He recounted those early experiences in his autobiography “And There I Stood With My Piccolo.”

In addition to giving the musical theater “The Music Man” and “The Unsinkable Molly Brown” however, Willson composed two symphonies that were recently recorded by William T. Stromberg and the Moscow Symphony Orchestra. Strouse’s musical pedigree is one of the most impressive. Like many composers of his generation, he studied with noted pedagogue Nadia Boulanger in Paris. When the musical theater beckoned, he responded with “Bye Bye Birdie,” “Applause” and his runaway hit “Annie.” But he is also credited with a “Sonata for Two Pianos.”

Other musical theater notables who found success in the world of classical music include Harvey Schmidt (“The Fantasticks,” “I Do! I Do!”), composer of a piano suite titled “Monteargento”; Richard Adler (“The Pajama Game,” “Damn Yankees”), who wrote “The Statue of Liberty Suite”; and Cy Coleman (“Sweet Charity,” “The Will Rogers Follies”), a composer of piano sonatas.

The true eclectic among this group is George Gershwin, the Tin Pan Alley composer (“Oh, Kay!,” “Strike Up the Band,” “Of Thee I Sing”) whose desire to incorporate elements of jazz into symphonic music resulted in “Rhapsody in Blue,” “An American in Paris” and his masterpiece, the folk opera “Porgy and Bess.”

Lesser talents have attempted to cross over from one musical realm into another, but the results have rarely been convincing. How many of the aforementioned works will have any kind of lasting effect on the repertoire is impossible to predict. At least the musicians responsible for those works can’t be faulted for any lack of style, form or musical logic.

The first stage – synthesis – describes a performer’s initial exposure to a new work. Often referred to as sight-reading, this process provides an overview of a new composition, with clues about its musical period, style and complexity. This stage may also involve a comparison of the musical score with a recording, which allows the performer to grasp the work’s scope and architectural design. The novice may be tempted to make a determination about the work’s value at this point but it’s far too premature to make such claims.

From there, the real work begins: analysis. Details about melody, harmony, rhythm, form, style and mood are subject to scrutiny at this stage. Depending on the work’s complexity and length, as well as the performer’s degree of musicianship, this process can take weeks, months or even years to realize. One often hears tales of professional musicians who put off performing a work for a period of years because of the overwhelming responsibility involved.

Young concert violinists rarely program the Beethoven violin concerto, for example. Their concerns rarely have to do with technique but rather the ability to convey a compelling performance of a beloved masterwork. Knowing their performance will be judged against the high standards set by celebrated musicians of the past makes their task even more daunting.

The cycle finally ends much as it began. After a significant period devoted to study, this final stage of synthesis results in a much greater understanding of the work’s technical and musical demands. And though the final stage brings the process full circle, the study of music is ongoing. It’s not uncommon for musicians to devote entire careers to the exploration of challenging repertoire: the contrapuntal works of Bach, the late sonatas of Beethoven or the intricate works of Berg and Webern.

Like actors who return to a favorite role throughout their careers, musicians know they will be asked to perform the repertoire’s great masterworks again and again. Yet, each time a performer revisits such a work, there exists an opportunity to further illuminate its beauties and probe its mysteries. When that happens, performer and listener benefit equally from the process.

When Ravel orchestrated Mussorgsky’s “Pictures,” he, in essence, created an entirely new work. Though still recognizable to those who knew the original, Ravel’s version featured some novel orchestrational touches: the use of saxophone in “The Old Castle” or a tenor tuba in “Bydlo.” Of course, Ravel was a remarkable colorist, whether working with someone else’s scores or his own. The French impressionist transformed his own “Alborada del Gracioso” and “Valses nobles et sentimentales” with equal deftness.

Both Dvorak and Brahms experimented with a larger color palette in their “Slavonic Dances” and “Hungarian Dances,” respectively. With some, I prefer the four-hand piano originals; others seem conceived orchestrally. Alexander Gauk took Tchaikovsky’s piano suite known as “The Seasons” and handily arranged it for orchestra. The results frequently sound as if Tchaikovsky had done his own orchestrations.

Another noted example is Howard Hanson’s “For the First Time.” If we view the piano suite as being two-dimensional, these brief movements emerge anew when “colorized” with Hanson’s vivid orchestral palette. Percy Grainger qualifies as one of music’s most prolific meddlers, typically arranging his own works for multiple combinations of instruments. He even invented the term “elastic scoring” to describe his approach.

Grainger’s “The Immovable Do,” for example, has found its way into multiple published versions, including arrangements for band or mixed chorus (with or without organ); full orchestra; string orchestra or wind choir; pipe, electronic or reed organ; clarinet choir (saxophones at will) and woodwind choir. In cases such as these, keyboard works illustrate their versatility and adaptability to many different treatments; think of them as variations on an original theme. The result is a musical transformation whose myriad colors often cast the original in a flattering new light.

This type of exercise is encouraged in most music schools, as students are expected to become reasonably proficient at score reading. Those planning to become band, orchestra or choral directors need to become adept at reading multiple lines simultaneously. The ears are capable of processing an infinite variety of sounds, pitches and timbres, a phenomenon that leads many to believe a concert experience should be purely auditory. Others prefer to link sounds with a visual image, thereby bringing two of our five senses into play.

I, too, enjoy listening to a composition unfold as I follow along in my score, but I don’t often make a practice of doing so in the concert hall. It can be an unnecessary distraction. I have also discovered that with some works, I actually end up hearing differently when I listen with score in hand. Pianist Van Cliburn once told me that whenever he played in Japan, he’d see hordes of students following every musical nuance in their printed scores. That led him to ponder just exactly what they were hearing. Was the performance providing them with an emotional response or an intellectual one? Was the eye tricking the ear into hearing something that wasn’t actually happening? Or did the visual aid of having a score in front of them somehow enhance the listening experience?

Low lighting in concert halls also makes score reading impractical, so, when one considers the potential for distracting other listeners, the disadvantages far outweigh the advantages. Score reading can be invaluable during rehearsals, however, particularly when the work in question is new or simply unfamiliar. That’s extremely beneficial when we as critics are asked to assess a performance.

Under those circumstances, one can better grasp the work’s structure, musical language and orchestrational devices.  I did appreciate having the score to Jennifer Higdon’s “Percussion Concerto” when Colin Currie gave the work its Oklahoma premiere with the Oklahoma City Philharmonic in February. Being able to watch this complex work unfold on the page was immensely rewarding.

Ultimately, it brings to mind a familiar adage heard in music schools everywhere: “You should have the score in your head, not your head in the score.”

Whatever happened to listening to music for music’s sake? I shudder to think that so many of the classical repertoire’s great masterpieces have been relegated to the world of Muzak. Today, people hear rather than listen. You also wonder who decided which works were deemed appropriate for a specific activity.  Sony’s “Dinner Classics – Just Desserts” gives us an all-Mozart program, while the same label’s “Dinner Classics – A Cocktail Party” compiles music by Claude Bolling. “Dinner Classics – American Picnic” rightly features music by Gershwin, Copland and Scott Joplin, but for some unknown reason also includes a selection by the Belgian composer Henri Vieuxtemps.

The Eclipse label wins the most ludicrous prize with its “Classical Music for Women.” One might suspect this to be a collection of music by the likes of Ccile Chaminade, Fanny Mendelssohn, Clara Schumann, Ellen Taaffe Zwilich or Cindy McTee. Instead, it’s an operatic compilation featuring arias by Puccini, Bizet and Donizetti.

Such discs drive home the point that recording companies are no longer run by musicians but rather by businessmen who presumably have little interest in the product they’re hawking. Pity the poor CEO who assumes Elgar’s “Cockaigne Overture” is about an illicit drug or mistakes Haydn’s “Seasons” for Tchaikovsky’s. These marketing geniuses seem content to disguise the music to suit the public rather than trying to reach listeners based on the music’s own merits.

With overtures, concertos and, especially, symphonies, most composers seem to go for a dramatic finish. They accomplish this in a variety of ways, from the steady, incessant crescendo (Ravel’s “Bolero”), majestic brass chorales (Hindemith’s “Mathis der Maler”), the sustained final chord (Britten’s “Young Person’s Guide to the Orchestra”) or with music’s equivalent of the exclamation point, the accented final chord (Dvorak’s “Symphony No. 7″).

But the repertoire also boasts its share of quiet endings, leaving the listener with a sense of repose, wonder, serenity or questioning. It’s not unlike watching an old Western in which the cowboys ride off into the sunset.

At first glance – perhaps listen would be the more appropriate term – many might assume hushed endings to be less effective when compared to the grandeur of a Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition” or the flourish of a Brahms “Symphony No. 2.” But good composers have an uncanny way of keeping a listener engaged, regardless of the dynamics they choose.

In “Appalachian Spring,” Copland achieved cohesion by ending the work as he began it, with the now-familiar open chords. Mendelssohn took a similar approach with his overture to “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” its opening chord progression restated by the woodwinds in the final measures.

Some works seem destined to end quietly, among them, Howard Hanson’s “Fourth Symphony,” written as a requiem for his father; Britten’s “A Ceremony of Carols” with the fading sounds of its choral recessional; or “Neptune the Mystic” from Holst’s “The Planets,” whose score indicates that the final measure is to be repeated until “the sound is lost in the distance.”

Other marvelously effective conclusions include Brahms’ “Third Symphony,” which winds down to a final chord in the winds; Respighi’s “The Fountains of Rome” with its tolling of a distant bell; Shostakovich’s “Fifteenth Symphony,” whose use of triangle, woodblock, bells, snare drum, xylophone and tympani creates a curious effect; and Liadov’s “The Enchanted Lake,” whose sound evaporates into the dense mists.

Like Robert Frost’s poem “The Road Not Taken,” where two roads diverged in a wood, composers are presumably sorry they cannot travel both paths as they write the final measures of a work. Yet, every now and then, listeners are undoubtedly glad composers “took the one less traveled,” thereby giving us a chance to admire their skill at handling music’s more subtle moments.

But ours is a society that thrives on classifications, whether it be David Letterman’s Top Ten lists, the 100 greatest films of the century or the most important people of the millennium. Composers rarely adhere to any kind of predisposed classification, though, often producing music that varies considerably in popularity and quality over time.

Prolific composers such as Bach, Beethoven and Brahms (the Three Bs) all made lasting impressions on the repertoire, with the bulk of their music considered of extremely high quality. That said, their musical styles are as unique as a fingerprint. But others haven’t always adhered to one musical style.

Schoenberg is remembered as an advocate of the 12-tone system of composition, but his early “Transfigured Night” is solidly tonal; Copland is often equated with his “American-sounding” “Appalachian Spring” or “Rodeo,” but late works such as “Connotations” or “Inscapes” explore far more adventurous musical realms. Others, such as Hanson, Hindemith, Holst and Hovhaness, had compositional styles that made their music instantly recognizable.

One can find the occasional chameleon in the compositional firmament, however, a composer who periodically breaks with tradition to create a work that belies his usual sound. Think of Stravinsky and his “Pulcinella” or Piston and “The Incredible Flutist.” Finally, there are musicians who defy classification because their work is so stylistically varied – people such as Leonard Bernstein with his forays into symphonic music, the musical theater and jazz, along with any number of composers from the past two decades.

Aside from the recent Minimalist craze, one wonders how late 20th-century composers will someday be grouped. It’s difficult to imagine people such as Michael Torke, John Corigliano, Frederic Rzewski, Thomas Ades, John Adams and Ellen Taaffe Zwilich being easily classified. One also wonders to what extent music enthusiasts of our century will be able to readily identify their styles. As Bob Dylan once wrote, “the times, they are a-changin’.” No doubt they’ll continue to do so.

With popular music, it’s easy. Few will confuse “Stardust” with “When You Wish Upon a Star” or “Satin Doll” with “Nights in White Satin.” Classical music, itself a misnomer given that it primarily describes a type of music written between 1750 and 1825, often clouds the issue. There are easily distinguishable titles such as “The Planets,” “The Carnival of the Animals” and “Swan Lake.” But then you run into things such as “Verklarte Nacht,” “Ma Vlast” or “Le Boeuf sur le Toit.” The situation is further complicated when discussions turn to so-and-so’s Fifth Symphony. Beethoven’s, Prokofiev’s, Tchaikovsky’s, Mahler’s, Shostakovich’s, Bruckner’s? You get the idea.

Popular music may have its Top 40, but classical music – at least that which we consider Western (as opposed to Oriental) – encompasses well over four centuries. Works from the “standard” repertoire alone would require a Top 400 or 4,000. There’s no denying, however, that music titles, like book and film titles, do intrigue listeners. If your curiosity is piqued by the likes of “Wellington’s Victory,” “Three Pieces in the Shape of a Pear,” “Quiet City,” “Rugby,” “The Wasps” or “Central Park in the Dark,” spend a few bucks and indulge your ears.

Unfortunately, less descriptive titles such as “Adagio for Strings,” “Scherzo Capriccioso” or “Symphonic Dances” can’t begin to persuade as convincingly, even though their musical arguments are enormously compelling. Granted, the classical repertoire contains more than its share of clunkers as well as works that should have long since faded into oblivion. But the truly marvelous examples more than even the score. With some patience and a concentrated period of acute listening, you’ll soon be able to differentiate between a bourree and an allemande or a sarabande and a gigue.

Countless others have found themselves in similar circumstances. Felix Mendelssohn established the Leipzig Conservatory in 1842. A half-century later, Vincent d’Indy founded the Schola Cantorum, a school for the study and restoration of old church music and French folk song.  Many 19th century composers accepted prestigious administrative or teaching positions with the great music conservatories. In France, Gabriel Faure, Paul Dukas, Darius Milhaud and Olivier Messiaen all taught composition at the venerable Paris Conservatoire.

In Russia, Reinhold Gliere, Alexander Scriabin and Aram Khachaturian were professors of music at the Moscow Conservatory. Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov held a similar post at the conservatory in St. Petersburg.  France produced a number of composers who doubled as organists. A Belgian by birth, Cesar Franck became organist at Ste. Clotilde in Paris beginning in 1858, and Olivier Messiaen was associated with Paris’ La Trinite for 60 years.

If most European composers established careers in the country of their birth, a few accepted teaching positions in America. Between 1892-95, the Czech Antonin Dvorak headed New York’s National Conservatory of Music.  The British-born Frederick Delius enjoyed a long career in France but briefly taught music in Jacksonville, Fla. Delius had moved to Florida in 1884 in hopes of making his fortune as an orange grower. When that venture failed, he returned to Europe in 1886.

Gustav Mahler, composer of nine symphonies and numerous works for chorus and orchestra, devoted many years of his life to conducting. After holding posts with the Royal Opera in Budapest and the Vienna Opera in Austria, Mahler conducted at New York’s Metropolitan Opera from 1907-09. He then spent two seasons as music director of the New York Philharmonic Society.

The outbreak of World War II forced many Western European composers to leave their homelands, and many found refuge in the United States. Germany’s Paul Hindemith headed the composition department at Yale University until 1946; Hungary’s Bela Bartok briefly taught at Columbia University; and Austria’s Arnold Schoenberg was a member of the University of California, Los Angeles, composition faculty from 1936 to 1944.

A few composers became noted music critics. Hector Berlioz wrote for France’s Journal des Debats; Robert Schumann contributed reviews to Germany’s Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung; and the American Virgil Thomson wrote for the New York Herald Tribune between 1940 and 1954. Finally, there are those who established careers outside music while continuing to compose. The Russian Alexander Borodin graduated from the Academy of Medicine in St. Petersburg and later became a chemist there.

The American iconoclast Charles Ives established a highly successful insurance business in New England, while the Greek composer Iannis Xenakis served as assistant to architect Le Corbusier from 1947 to 1959. Throughout much of the 20th century, many notable American composers became associated with one or more prestigious music schools. Howard Hanson spent 40 years as director of the Eastman School of Music; William Schuman and Peter Mennin both served as president of The Juilliard School.

Even today, few composers can make a living solely from their music. Though widely performed, Christopher Rouse, John Corigliano, Richard Danielpour and William Bolcom have all supplemented their income through teaching. Under such circumstances, you might think composers would view teaching as a necessary evil. But without the guidance and encouragement of their mentors, who’s to say if their careers would have taken off? Thankfully, this practice has become a self- perpetuating cycle that should ensure the continued presence of serious music for decades to come.