The Oratorio Society of New York has performed Messiah every December since 1874, and at Carnegie Hall since it opened in 1891. Singers and listeners are invited to contribute anecdotes about their first encounter with this glorious masterpiece.  Email your stories to webmaster@oratoriosocietyofny.org.

First, a celebrity listener.
     ". . . Handel's Messiah. It was here [the Sacred-Music Society's weekly oratorio concerts at Exeter Hall] that I came to understand the true spirit of English musical culture, which is bound up with the spirit of English Protestantism. This accounts for the fact that an oratorio attracts the public far more than an opera. A further advantage is secured by the feeling among the audience than an evening spent listening to an oratorio may be regarded as a sort of service, and is almost as good as going to church. Every one in the audience holds a Handel piano score the same way as one holds a prayerbook in church. These scores are sold at the box-office in shilling editions, and are followed most diligently--out of anxiety, it seemed to me, not to miss certain points solemnly enjoyed by the whole audience."
     Richard Wagner, My Life "Part III, 1850-1861"

     My first performance of Messiah, with the OSNY in 1987, was also my first performance at Carnegie Hall. I sat in the end seat of the row (to the audience's left), so I was the last person to walk on stage for my row. During the preconcert warm-up someone was missing from my row, and in order to make room on stage, a chair was removed.
     The missing person showed up for the performance, and when I walked out onto the stage, there was one chair too few. For my Carnegie Hall debut I got to walk back off stage and ask a stagehand to bring out a chair for me!
     Elizabeth Simpson

     I sang my first Messiah in Chapel Hill, NC, where I was a Graduate Student. A native New Yorker, living in the South subjected me to serious culture shock. When I saw a notice for an open reading (piano only) of Messiah I decided to go and try to improve my mood.
     Singing Messiah helped, but not enough-until someone in the last row stood, took out a silver trumpet, and played "A Trumpet Shall Sound." If I'd been dead, it could have raised me, too. It certainly was more than enough to get rid of my city-slicker blues.
By the way, 
     Every so often over the last 20 years or so, I've tried to track down a possibly apocryphal story about a copyright violation against Messiah by "Oh Yes, We Have No Bananas." Recently I found some evidence that the story may be true. In the Internet version, the Westman Co., publishers of Messiah sheet music (whatever that is) brought suit against "Bananas'" publisher. ("Bananas" was composed by Frank Silver and Irving Cohen, and published 1923.) Westman won and got a share of the song's profits. 
     Marie Gangemi

     When I joined The Oratorio Society, I hadn't sung in a chorus for several years. I determined to study diligently so I wouldn't make a fool of myself. Our first concert was to be Messiah, which I had never sung, or even attended a performance of. But I was reasonably familiar with much of the music--who isn't? So I went to rehearsals, and studied my score, and by December felt pretty well prepared.
     Then we had our first rehearsal at Carnegie Hall, and reality set in. CARNEGIE HALL?!!! Was I going to sing there? When we lined up before the concert, I shivered, clutching my score (in the proper hand, as instructed), and wondered why everyone else looked so calm. By the time we reached our seats, I was a wreck.
     But the greatest terror was the music itself--not the notes, the silences. What could be worse than to miss a cue, and sing out loud and clear when we were supposed to be still. The only way to avoid that was to stay glued to my score. I followed every voice part, every orchestral bar, watching as well as listening for my cues. I was not going to be an accidental soloist.
     The evening went well. I was beginning to relax (slightly). We were more than halfway through, and the music was glorious. Perhaps I would survive after all. Then the orchestra began to play the introduction to the "Hallelujah" chorus, and I heard the rustle: feet shuffling, chairs moving, clothing swishing. It sounded like the whole audience was . . . moving! Startled, I peeped quickly over the top of my score. THE ENTIRE AUDIENCE WAS RISING TO ITS FEET!!! Oh, heavens, I thought, they hate us! They're going to boo us off the stage! 
     I sang from memory, staring at the audience, wanting to crouch down behind the orchestra. But the rest of the chorus stood bravely, so I stood too. If they hated us, we would still do our best.
     Then the "Hallelujah" chorus was over. Lyndon paused, the audience sat down again, and the concert continued as though there had been no disturbance. I went back into my score, glancing up every once in awhile to make sure the audience stayed seated. After the concert was over, I found out that it was traditional for the audience to stand during the "Hallelujah" chorus. I also learned that it isn't enough to learn to sing the music. It's also useful to find out what unexpected things are likely to happen at a concert.
     Maxine Brady 

While not exactly Messiah, read on.
     Giovanni Battista Bononcini was a rival composer of Italian opera, and with Handel, came to represent two warring schools of musicians with negligible difference real differences. Most of the nobility sided with Bononcini, but the Prince of Wales preferred Handel. John Byrom (1692-1763) English shorthand expert and poet of "facilely rhyming, rather eccentric religious verse" penned the following and introduced Tweedledum and Tweedledee to the English language.
          Some say, compared to Bononcini
          That Mynheer Handel's but a ninny.
          Others aver that he to Handel
           Is scarcely fit to hold a candle.
          Strange all this difference should be
          'Twixt tweedledum and tweedledee.