Three premieres in a month raise the question: Can music evoke wilderness?

In the span of less than one month, Anchorage audiences heard three new musical works depicting Alaska's great outdoors. The first, "Eternity Passing Over — An Arctic Requiem" by Seattle-area composer John Muehleisen, was presented by the Alaska Chamber Singers on Oct. 15. An a cappella choral work, it focused on emotions associated with loss and death rather than on scenery per se, though the beauty and danger of the wilderness was part of the theme.

Anchorage composer James Webb directly alluded to adventures and mountain peaks in the Talkeetnas when he described his Rhapsody in E minor, "Hatcher Pass," premiered by the Anchorage Civic Orchestra on Nov. 5. It followed a familiar formula for these nature-inspired works, which I'll call "The Format:" A mysterious opening followed by some (usually) melodic and increasingly exuberant music with a lot of brass signifying the summit or vista appearing mid-work. In the case of "Hatcher Pass," Webb's most memorable recurring theme was a jaunty walking tune suggestive of the Scottish Highlands, which some have likened to the Hatcher Pass terrain.

Webb's piece followed Corliss Kimmel's "Denali Seasons," a previously performed work that stuck closely with The Format, adding some bird calls and an avalanche. The all-Alaska program also included "Gordon's Last Ride," by Philip Munger and George Belden's Second Symphony.

[Related: New requiem honors Anchorage couple killed by bear in 2005]

The third new piece, "Glacier Bay" by Stephen Lias of Texas, was part of the Anchorage Symphony Orchestra's Nov. 12 concert, on a program that was totally devoted to "nature" music. In preperformance remarks, Lias told the audience that he had been coming to Alaska regularly over the past dozen years to get ideas for his compositions. Many of those compositions salute the wonders of the National Park Service, which celebrates its centennial this year.

Lias' tone poem also followed "The Format," opening with a quiet introduction evoking the mysteries of what's under the water and in the fog. The clouds lifted with the strings carrying a happy melody, leading to some contrapuntal work in the brass and then a wall-o'-sound climax as the spectacle of a tidewater glacier was revealed. After that the work closed as quietly as it had begun with the plaintive sound of the low flute ushering in the fading final bars.

"Glacier Bay" was accompanied by projected pictures of the area, as was Ferde Grofe's "Grand Canyon Suite," which preceded it in the program. Though the initial movement, "Sunrise," went splendidly, there were some weak spots as the work went on. Nonetheless, the audience seemed to like it better than anything else on the bill and we can probably credit this composition for the near-full house at the concert. Everyone seemed to like the slideshows.

The evening ended with Richard Strauss' "An Alpine Symphony," his orchestral depiction of a day in the mountains. This piece is the nature music Format written in all-capital letters, a grand arch rising to a summit declared by more trombones, trumpets, horns and Wagner tubas on stage than I could count, bookended by moody murmuring, with episodes that range from a waterfall to cows in a pasture to a storm. For the most part the Anchorage players handled the difficulties well; they must have put in some arduous rehearsals. But by the end they seemed worn out. The audience, on the other hand, sounded enthusiastic.

Conductor Randall Craig Fleischer helpfully supplied the titles of different sections projected above the state ("Entrance into the Woods," "Dangerous Moments," etc.). But even with the Lonely Planet guide assistance and some splendiferous moments, the 50-plus-minute "Alpine Symphony" is, for me, a piece that overstays its welcome. As I listened to Strauss' visions on Nov. 12 I had plenty of time to contemplate the concept of nature music.

Composers seem addicted to giving it at least one try. A couple of the successful examples include Vivaldi's "The Four Seasons" and Beethoven's Sixth Symphony. In the 1800s, American composers paid musical tribute to our native New World wonders like Niagara Falls and sequoias. They've never really stopped. In February we heard an ASO-commissioned concerto for violin and cello by double concerto by Eric Ewazen, which had something to do with Turnagain Arm and Girdwood.

The ASO has debuted several pieces, mainly by out-of-state musicians, that purport to convey something about the Alaska landscape. Only one bit has stuck with me over the years, the finale of Munger's "Chugach Symphony," a tone painting of the Copper River.

Overall, however, though the wilderness music genre is occasionally charming, I can't think of a piece that approaches the transcendental level in the sense of a Bach fugue, a Chopin ballade or the best nonprogrammatic symphonies.

Why is music inspired by the world's most memorable views and stunning geography seldom memorable itself? Is it because music cannot match the majesty of mountains? I think not. There are plenty of pieces of music that lift the spirit straight out of the body with an ecstasy not unlike that experienced in a fine wilderness excursion.

But those great pieces of music are never about wilderness. They are about love, death, victory, theology or pure music for music's sake. In other words, they are always about the human, the part of the universe that exists apart from geography, ecology, weather or waterfalls.

The "Grand Canyon Suite" is perhaps the best-known symphonic stab at capturing a national park. Note, however, that the best-known part of Grofe's suite, "On the Trail," is the one section that doesn't explicitly describe the view. Instead it describes domesticated animals and the people who ride them. It stands on the side of charming rather than majestic and the human rather than the natural. But it is the memorable moment of the piece, the one part that a random person can most likely intone if I offer them $100 to sing any tune from the "Grand Canyon Suite."

It's also possible that the weakness springs from The Format itself. I'm not sure how I would approach the assignment differently if asked to compose an orchestral piece that reflected Alaska scenery. But I don't think I would start or end it with a misterioso fade in or fade out. The impression this occasional outdoor enthusiast gets upon stepping into wilderness is never mysterious or quiet or suspenseful, though it can get that way after a few hours. But Alaska, the land, usually hits like an asteroid slamming into your face the minute you open your eyes to it.

Here I submit the thesis that the chaotic splendor of the wild will never — or almost never — be a very successful subject for the ordered beauty of music. The Belden symphony at the ACO concert was an example of music that aimed to convey nothing more than itself and emotion. As conducted by the composer it was a poor performance, ragged, uneven, disorganized and perhaps truncated from the first performance with the ASO in the 1980s. But I found it more satisfying than the nature pieces.

Similarly, Fleischer's intelligently shaped and energetically compact interpretation of Beethoven's "Eroica" Symphony at the ASO opener in September stands out as a highlight of 2016. Forget the subtitle, the funeral march, the conjectural allusions to "Turkish" music and the legend of Prometheus. The "Eroica" is, above all, art for art's sake with no "message" beyond itself.

I recalled that performance while applauding at the end of "An Alpine Symphony," and was reminded of a retort once aimed at me. I had breathlessly described an awesome Chugach hike to a literary friend and dropped in the cliche, "the works of God." He sighed with a tone of contempt and replied, "I'm more interested in art. The works of man."