Walking onto the choral risers–a junior in high school–passing the shimmering scrolls of stringed instruments and twinkling brass of the horns, I had my first moment. A smile forced its way onto my face and defied the will of my brain to make it go away. It’s embarrassing to show emotion as a high school boy, after all. The inimitable Kayla Werlin, our high school choral director, took the stage, made eye contact with the chamber orchestra players, and then with us, and then gave the downbeat to the first movement of the Brahms Requiem. I couldn’t even sing the first chord. The lump in my throat prevented any sound from escaping. I had never felt anything like it—an overwhelming joy and beauty so immense that the human nervous system had yet to evolve enough to respond appropriately. This was to be my first moment, my name for the way music makes us feel that simply cannot be explained with written or spoken language.
When I spoke with Ms. Werlin after that performance, I told her what I had felt. I said, “I had this lump in my throat, my heart was racing, my eyes welled with tears, and I could barely sing my favorite measures.” She laughed, sat down at her desk, and said, “Oh man, you’ve been bitten.” I didn’t fully appreciate that response until many years later when I realized, yes, I absolutely had been bitten. Since then, my entire music career has been in pursuit of the moment. In each new piece learned or performed, I try desperately to achieve the feeling I felt on that Thursday evening in 2014. And I most certainly have come close, while singing and conducting dream pieces. But nothing reached the intensity of that first moment until I became a high school choral director.
Suddenly, these moments occurred at least once during each concert. The beauty of the music, paired with the pride I had for my students’ hard work, was a more intense form of joy than any I experienced before. I could see, in real-time, moments igniting in my students’ souls as their faces lit up on their favorite measures. All at once, I had become the person who inspired me so profoundly when I sang in high school. Now, I can provide those moments to my students just like she did for me.
A student of mine, a tenor no less, told me he wasn’t planning on signing up for chorus again next year. “How come?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t know. I want to take other classes. Maybe I can come back to choir senior year.”
Hearing that a student doesn’t adore choir as much as I think they do is a knife in the chest to a choral director, especially when it comes from the very few tenors and basses we have signed up! But, it happens.
A few weeks later, we began rehearsing Elaine Hagenberg’s beautiful choral work, O Love, which has some particularly lush writing for the tenors. Something changed. I could see on his face that he was fully immersed in it. I could feel his soul, and those of the other tenors, intertwining with the beauty of what they were singing. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, I was witnessing the creation of moments for each of them.
After this rehearsal, the student approached me. “Mr. F?” “Yes?”
“I think I’m going to stay in choir next year.” “Oh yeah? Why the change of heart?”
“I really like that piece.”
“Me too. I’m glad you like it.”
He smiled and left. For those perhaps not fluent in “teenage boy,” saying they really like something is tantamount to a gushing, full-throated, passionate endorsement. Hearing them admit to something positive is perhaps more rare than the rarest gemstone on earth—this was a big deal! But if I made it known that this was a big deal, I would have gotten hit with a “you’re being cringe.” So, I played it cool.
He had experienced the inexplicable, the divine interaction between mortals and music. It is a feeling for which we have no words; music stands as its own explanation for its own questions.
I feel strongly that the creative pursuit, whether it be the visual or performing arts, is a pursuit of these moments. We, as co-creators, seek those moments that imbue our lives with beauty and meaning. Yet, they are not just reserved for creators and performers. Moments occur for all listeners and consumers of art. Ask any teenager, and they will confirm that a recent break-up demands some sad music and time alone in their room. Ask any student athlete, and they will tell you their favorite “pump up” songs before a big game. Put on a toddler’s favorite song, and they will throw their little bodies around to the beat. As it turns out, moments created by music are a universal human experience.
Some moments occur in the powerful and loud. Others unfold in the quiet and intimate. They may amplify pain or offer healing. For some, they motivate and excite; for others, they bring calm and stillness. Just like the music we listen to, these moments are unique to each person. So the next time you find yourself listening to, mixing, performing, conducting, or writing music, pay attention to them. Let them wash over you. Honor them.
Biography
Anthony C. Ferreira (ASCAP) is a composer, conductor, educator, and filmmaker based in New England. As an educator, Anthony has published articles in NAfME’s Teaching Music magazine and IMEA’s Summer Music Notes. He has been recognized as a quarterfinalist for the 2026 and 2024 GRAMMY® Music Educator of the Year awards. He enjoys regularly adjudicating for MMEA and MICCA and presenting on best practices at the CMEA All-State Conference.
Anthony holds a BM in Composition from UMass Amherst and an MM in Choral Conducting from the Indiana University Jacobs School of Music. He will begin his DMA in Music Education at Boston University this fall. Anthony currently serves as the Director of Vocal Music at Suffield High School, the Director of Music for the Second Baptist Church of Suffield, the Assistant Conductor of the Pioneer Valley Symphony, and the Artistic Director of the Auxilium Singers.