On today’s date in the year 2000, the Boston Symphony gave the premiere performance of the Second Symphony of the American composer John Corigliano. The symphony, for strings alone, was a reworking of this chamber work, a string quartet that Corigliano had composed for the farewell tour of the Cleveland Quartet in 1996.

The string quartet turned symphony was very well received, and the following year was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for music. “I am more than shocked... I don't know what to say,” commented Corigliano upon receiving the news. “It's one of the great surprises of my life.”

Perhaps doubly surprising, since, as a young man, Corigliano had pretty much ruled out writing even one symphony, let alone a second. “My thought then,” says Corigliano, “was that there were so many great symphonies in the repertoire that I could satisfy only my ego by writing yet another. Only the death of countless friends from AIDS prompted me to write my Symphony No. 1. That was about a world-scale tragedy and, I felt, needed a comparably epic form.”

“My second symphony had a different genesis. The Boston Symphony contacted my publisher with a request that I write a second symphony to honor the l00th anniversary of their justly famous Symphony Hall. At first I declined, stating my earlier reservations about writing in this form, but they were quite insistent.”

Utah came to the stage of Avery Fisher Hall in New York City, musically speaking, on this date in 1989, when the Orchestra of St. Luke’s premiered a “Utah Symphony” by the American composer John Duffy. His Symphony No. 1 was commissioned by Gibbs Smith, the president of the Utah Chapter of the Sierra Club. Smith’s idea was to draw attention to the endangered and pristine wilderness lands of his home state.

John Duffy knew this region firsthand. “I began sketching musical ideas for the symphony while hiking through southeastern Utah in the spring of 1988,” wrote Duffy. “The landscape of this glorious state astounded me: Dramatic contrasts of light and shadow… violent changes in weather… expansive vistas. Here in the ancient Indian ruins, canyons, cathedral-like Mesas, and fantastical slabs of rock is a spiritual presence and aesthetic wonder of pure, majestic, humbling wilderness.”

John Duffy is perhaps best known for writing the score to the 9-hour PBS documentary series Heritage: Civilization and the Jews. He was born in the Bronx and studied with Aaron Copland and Henry Cowell, among others.

In addition to composing over 300 works, in 1974, Duffy founded Meet The Composer, an organization dedicated to the creation, performance, and recording of music by American composers. Duffy acted as the organization’s President for almost 20 years, and helped advance the careers of dozens of today’s leading American composers.

If you believe what you see in the movies, this is the most difficult piano concerto ever written, dubbed “Rach III” by the intimidated piano students in the movie “Shine.” You’d think, since this was Hollywood, the characters in that popular movie of the ‘90s would have called Rachmaninoff’s Third Piano Concerto “Rocky III”—ah, but that’s show biz!

The Russian composer and dazzling piano virtuoso Sergei Rachmaninoff composed this concerto for his 1909 North American tour, and played the first performance himself with the New York Symphony on today’s date that year. Walter Damrosch conducted that performance, and shortly afterward played it again that season, with the rival New York Philharmonic under the baton of Gustav Mahler.

Beyond the technical difficulties of the solo part, it’s a question of sheer stamina that makes Rachmaninoff’s Third Concerto so difficult. It seems that the soloist is always “on,” always playing.

Rachmaninoff’s own interpretation is preserved on a vintage Philadelphia Orchestra recording conducted by Eugene Ormandy, and subsequent Russian virtuosos like Vladimir Horowitz and Vladimir Ashkenazy also made fantastic recordings of “Rach III”.

At 2 p.m. on today’s date in 1855, a small band of musicians gave the first in a series of chamber music concerts at Dodworth’s Hall in New York City. As a contemporary newspaper notice put it, “In consequence of the numerous evening engagements of the city, and to enable ladies to be present without escort, it is proposed to give matinees in preference to soirees.”

The first concert was a great success. In fact, many of the fashionably dressed ladies who attended were forced to stand, as all available seats were already occupied.

In addition to classics by Schubert and Mendelssohn, the New York audience heard some brand-new music, the American premiere of a recently published piano trio by a 21-year old German composer named Johannes Brahms. The New York Times opined that the new music of young Herr Brahms contained “many good points and much sound musicianship” but possessed also “the defects of a young writer, among which may be enumerated length and solidarity. The motives seldom fall on the ear freshly.”

While it’s doubtful Brahms ever saw the review, or even had any inkling that his new trio had been played in America, he eventually agreed with the Times’ assessment. In 1889, 35 years after the first version of his Piano Trio No. 1 was published, Brahms extensively revised and shortened his youthful work, transforming his first major chamber work into his very last.

Charles Schulz, the creator of the popular “Peanuts” comic strip, was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota, on today’s date in 1922.

Music—Beethoven’s music in particular—played an important role in the life of Schroeder, a piano-playing character in “Peanuts,” but even NEW music snuck in the strip on occasion. In a 1990 installment, Peppermint Patty attends a young people's concert. Informed that the program would contain a piece by Ellen Taaffe Zwilich, who had just won the Pulitzer Prize for Music, Peppermint Patty stands up and yells, ''Way to go, Ellen!''

The strip was inspired by a real-life incident. Schulz had heard a piece by Zwilich at a concert by the Sonoma County Symphony in Northern California, and was impressed. ''Every time I go to the symphony, it stirs up my brain,'' said Schultz.

Zwilich and Schultz struck up a friendship, and when Zwilich was asked to write a new work for a young people’s concert by New York’s Orpheus Chamber Orchestra, the result was a suite entitled “Peanuts Gallery.”

The 1997 premiere of “Peanuts Gallery” at Carnegie Hall was even acknowledged by Schultz in a Sunday “Peanuts” strip that had Schroeder telling Lucy about the new work. ``We're all in it,'' he says, and goes on to list the movements: “Schroeder's Beethoven Fantasy,” “Lullaby for Linus,” “Lucy Freaks Out,” etc.

After looking at a copy of the score, Lucy's only comment is: “MY part should be longer.''

On today’s date in 2005, the Philadelphia Orchestra under the direction of Christoph Eschenbach gave the premiere performance of a brand-new Percussion Concerto by the American composer Jenifer Higdon. The soloist was Colin Currie, a Scottish virtuoso for whom the work was tailor made and to whom it’s dedicated.

In program notes for her work, Higdon wrote, “When writing a concerto I think of two things: the particular soloist for whom I am writing and the nature of the solo instrument. In the case of percussion, this means a large battery of instruments, from vibraphone and marimba (the favorite instrument of soloist Colin Currie), to non-pitched smaller instruments (brake drum, wood blocks, Peking Opera gong), and to the drums themselves …

“Not only does a percussionist have to perfect playing all of these instruments, but he must make hundreds of decisions regarding the use of sticks and mallets, as there is an infinite variety of possibilities from which to choose. Not to mention the choreography of the movement of the player; where most performers do not have to concern themselves with movement across the stage during a performance, a percussion soloist must have every move memorized.”

Higdon’s new concerto proved popular with both audiences and the critics, and in 2010 the work won that year’s Grammy Award for Best Classical Contemporary Composition.

On today’s date in 1949, at Carnegie Hall in New York, Leopold Stokowski conducted the New York Philharmonic in the first performance of the last major work of the American composer Carl Ruggles.

In a letter to his friend Charles Ives, or “Charlie” as he called him, Ruggles hinted that in this piece, “perhaps I’m stumbling on something new.” Another composer-friend, Edgar Varèse, agreed, but, perhaps thinking of the passage in Ecclesiastes suggesting there is “nothing new under the sun,” wrote: “The use [of intervals of] 5ths and 4ths is very remarkable, because that was done hundreds of years ago—let’s call it ‘Organum’.” And so “Organum,” a word referring to an early medieval polyphony, became the title of Ruggles’ final orchestral piece.

After that, Ruggles, then already 73 years old, pretty much gave up on the musical establishment and went to live on his farm in Arlington, Vermont, where he devoted himself to painting. His artwork, like his music, was in an abstract style, but bold and colorful. In 1966, he moved to a nursing home, where he died in 1971 at the age of 95.

Shortly before his death, Ruggles was visited by Michael Tilson Thomas, who recalls the feisty old man commenting to the young conductor, “Now don’t go feeling sorry. I don’t hang around this place, you know. Hell, each day I go out and make the universe anew—all over!”

In the year 1834, the great violin virtuoso Niccolo Paganini had acquired a new Stradivarius viola. He approached the 30-year old French composer Hector Berlioz and commissioned him to write a viola concerto. “Why don’t you write one yourself?” asked Berlioz. “Oh, I’m not up to it,” Paganini replied, “You will succeed, I insist.”

What Berlioz came up with, however, was a Romantic program symphony inspired by Byron’s narrative poem “Childe Harold,” with a prominent part for solo viola. Berlioz entitled his symphony “Harold in Italy.” Paganini was disappointed. “That is not what I want,” he said. “I am silent a great deal too long. I must be playing the whole time.”

And so, when “Harold in Italy” was first performed, at the Paris Conservatory on today’s date in 1834, it was an old classmate of Berlioz’s, Chrétien Urhan, who was the soloist, not the superstar Paganini. The audience seemed to like the “Pilgrims’ March” movement of the symphony, which was encored, but otherwise the performance was one train wreck after another. Berlioz even received an anonymous letter the next day, suggesting if he had a gun, he should promptly blow his brains out.

Four years later, however, Berlioz had the last laugh. At a concert that included his “Harold in Italy” symphony, Paganini, after actually hearing the music he commissioned, rose from the audience, mounted the stage and publicly declared Berlioz a genius, and two days letter presented the stunned Berlioz with a check for 20,000 francs.

If you’re a baby boomer, you probably remember exactly where you were and what you were doing on November 22, 1963, the day President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas.

On that day, American composer Warren Benson was just beginning to work on a commission he had received for a new work for wind band. Maybe the trauma of that day unleashed some creative power in Benson, but whatever the reason, the resulting music is both intense and moving. He titled his piece “The Leaves Are Falling,” a line from Rainer Maria Rilke's "Autumn," a poem that evokes a sense of a passing season and a passing life. “The Leaves Are Falling” became Benson’s best-known work, and a landmark score in the wind band repertory.

Born in 1924, Benson grew up in Detroit, studied at the University of Michigan, and landed a job playing timpani in the Detroit Symphony. He served as a professor of percussion and composition at Ithaca College, and from 1967 until 1993, he taught composition at the Eastman School in Rochester, New York.

"I write music for people,” said Benson. “Family, friends, professionals, and amateurs alike. It is to give us pleasure that we collaborate—not without serious commitment, exposure, and risk, not without striving for genuine expression, new challenge, and fresh solutions worthy of the art.”

On today’s date in 1941, the famous Greek-born conductor Dimitri Mitropoulos led the Minneapolis Symphony in the premiere performance of a new symphony by German composer Paul Hindemith, who came to Minnesota for the performance.

Mitropoulos was an ardent promoter of new music, but few of the contemporary works he programmed were welcomed by audiences or the critics with much enthusiasm. Hindemith’s reputation as an atonal composer had preceded him, but, surprisingly, his new piece for Minneapolis was billed as a “Symphony in Eb Major” and, much to the delight of all concerned, featured recognizable tunes. “His themes were melodious, instantly recognizable and easily followed,” wrote the critic of the Minneapolis Tribune, concluding, “It was marked by musical honesty and sincerity [and] it should be heard again soon, not only in Minneapolis, but by other concert audiences the country over.”

By chance, another famous composer, Sergei Rachmaninoff, was in Minneapolis that day, and was invited by Mitropoulos to attend the Hindemith premiere backstage, where he wouldn’t be annoyed by autograph seekers. Rachmaninoff had a very pessimistic view of modern music, but Mitropoulos was sure the famously dour Russian would like Hindemith’s resolutely tonal new symphony. Rachmaninoff was positioned just off stage, and after the end of the symphony, which was received with great applause, Mitropoulos passed him as he left the stage. “Well?” asked Mitropoulos. “No goooood,” was Rachmaninoff’s lugubrious response.