May 2024: Requiem

Et lux perpetua

Friends — hi.

Several of you are new here (thanks Steve), so I just wanted to extend a quick hello and thank you for your clicks. I publish my upcoming concert listings at the beginning of each month, usually below some thoughts tangentially rooted in music I love. You’re welcome to read them, or scroll straight to the useful stuff — avail yourself this space however serves you best.

Before you continue on (or not), a quick disclaimer for all: as some of you know, it’s been a very difficult few weeks in the life of Emery. If you’re not prepared to read about deep, intensely personal grief, perhaps skip the 1300 words below — my archive has some lighter fare to tide you over until next time. If you choose to proceed, I can’t promise you’ll walk away with more than some pretty musical tidbits, but this month, there’s simply nothing else I can fathom writing about. Again, it is my party and I can cry if I want to.

Mom’s Thanksgiving word cloud

My mother had a fierce pandemic embroidery habit. She keeps a proud display of her opus in a corner of our Los Angeles family home: several dozen taut swaths of brightly-colored fabric, stretched and cut to fit circular frames, emblazoned with flower designs, or incipits of Bach cantatas, or pull quotes from presidential candidates-turned-incumbent.

Near the center of that hanging display stands my mother’s Thanksgiving 2020 project, a gratitude-themed word cloud with submissions from family nuclear and extended. I was feeling pretty ungrateful that November — the future of the arts world uncertain, my hard-earned college conducting opportunities canceled — but I insisted that my mother add one name to the project on my behalf: Sarah Grube.

I’d met Sarah in 2018, in her very first weeks as a bushy-tailed Yale freshman. Our lives quickly converged — our choir-and-opera-heavy rehearsal schedules often looked nearly identical, and the dorms to which we returned each night stood just a courtyard apart. Over the subsequent years, she would become one of my most cherished musical collaborators and a permanent, grounding fixture in my life’s many facets, from sightreading parties to long gourmet dinners to late nights in my off-campus apartment. (She’d gleefully built most of my furniture when I moved in 2019.)

With Sarah at New Haven’s Modern Apizza, shortly after she built an apartment’s worth of my furniture, c. Summer 2019

Friends, Sarah Grube passed away on the afternoon of April 12, just a couple months shy of her 24th birthday. Her death was unexpected, premature, and devastating beyond the power of words — as it will remain forever.

I received the call around noon the next day, standing on the A train platform nearest to my apartment. That afternoon, my scrambled brain looked for any palliative to numb the imminent waves of pain. I tried desperately to recall my fondest memories of Sarah’s and my half decade together, but through the fog of panic and shock, I came up empty.

As that stupor gave way to profound, all-encompassing grief, I began to understand why I drew a blank in those harrowing first moments. Sure, Sarah and I had our fair share of wonderful adventures together. Late-night, post-performance romps through London’s gayborhoods. New York escapades that ranged from 13-mile walks up the Bronx coast to futile searches for chocolate-covered marzipan. The snowy New Haven afternoon when she taught me that cardboard boxes can serve as makeshift sleds — a scrappy Midwestern hack for this California boy.

And yet, I remember Sarah most vividly at her most mundane. As a close friend put it in their gorgeous eulogy last week, Sarah Grube existed in life’s details, her sparks brightening the everyday existences of all around her.

The detail shot — yellow text for her sunny disposition

I remember Sarah in bear hugs so tight that our arm muscles would shake, her head always nestling snugly into the crook of my neck. I remember how she’d scrunch her nose and raise the timbre of her voice when greeting me. I remember the pant-wheeze of her excited laugh, and the squinty glare that invariably followed my dumbest jokes.

I remember Sarah in the way she lit up a room — not only with love and warmth, but with verve, and life, and enough mischievous energy to improve even the most boring obligations. I remember her quick, wry quips about Monteverdi’s angst or Whitacre’s schlock. Those one-liners would often bring rehearsals to a grinding, cackling halt in mere seconds, yet no conductor ever begrudged the interruption.

I remember Sarah in the music we performed together. I remember how she soared through the soprano solos of Howells’ Requiem as a freshman, and those of Mozart’s as a sophomore. I remember her best attempt at a British accent, which she reluctantly donned for our February 2020 production of Gilbert & Sullivan’s Patience. I remember the gorgeous flutter of her Belinda in our high-maintenance, pandemic-era virtual Dido & Aeneas. But I remember Sarah in the physical act of singing more than in any single piece of music, because I was always happiest singing next to her.

I remember Sarah in the things we’d argue about. Whether choirs need to perform from memory — they don’t. Whether Peter Warlock’s Christmas anthem “Bethlehem Down” is boring — it’s not. Whether steak should be served well-done — it shouldn’t. Sarah admitted a few months ago that she would purposefully insert controversial opinions into our conversations, just to watch me seethe.

I remember Sarah in the way she made justice her life’s goal, and in the way she relished every second she spent making the world a better place. Sarah was a tireless union organizer for facilities and hospitality employees at universities around Connecticut, and after several months of picketing and a historic strike (that she’d helped to coordinate), University of New Haven’s union of facilities workers ratified their new agreement — with every one of their demands met — at 9am on the day of her death.

I remember Sarah in the memes she’d dump unceremoniously into my Facebook Messenger feed — some wholesome and heartwarming, some putridly off-color, every one a token of deep affection. I remember Sarah in her uproarious “Tweets from Dark Yale” parody account, which I followed religiously long before I found out she was the mastermind. I remember Sarah in long nights trawling the recesses of YouTube swill, laughing over Michael Longfellow’s SNL sketches, shout-singing major choral-orchestral works in each other's faces, discussing the intricate politics of her native Cleveland’s classical music scene. (She smelled trouble at Cleveland Institute of Music years before any outlet reported it.)

I remember Sarah in the way she cheered me through my peaks and comforted me through my valleys. I remember how she loved me when I needed love, and hated me when I deserved hate. She would tell me plainly when I was being delusional, or cruel, or cocky, or rude — brutal honesty, presented with an adoring smile, was how she showed that she cared.

An original Grube meme, one of the most disturbing she ever sent

Music hasn’t felt quite right since Sarah departed. I can barely bring myself to listen to anything that doesn’t remind me of her. My grief playlist primarily consists of the anthem Herbert Howells wrote for JFK’s funeral, Randall Thompson’s Alleluia (which looped in the Cleveland funeral home where Sarah’s body lay in state), and Shawn Kirchner’s arrangement of “Angel Band,” the soulful folk tune that generations of friends assembled to sing last week at Sarah's New Haven memorial. I've fought tears at every choir rehearsal, every church service, every concert I've attended since receiving that fateful call nearly three weeks ago.

And yet, after the Cleveland wake and the following day’s funeral, my friends and I mourned in the only way we knew how: by singing the songs that brought us close to Sarah in the first place, the pieces where we could still hear her light, narrow vibrato echoing in our minds. In those excruciating moments, music was the only thing that felt cosmically right in a circumstance so catastrophically wrong.

Friends, as I navigate these longest weeks of my adult life, I beg your clemency and patience more seriously than ever. Coming to terms with such immense grief is a grueling, non-linear process, one that often stands at diametric odds with existing in everyday life. Two days ago, I made it into the office, and to dinner with a friend, and wrote the bulk of this eulogy. Yesterday, I did very little but cry in bed. These waves of agony are entirely new to me, and progress is going to be one step forward, two steps back for a long time. But as a friend put it so deftly, this is the unfortunate territory that comes with loving deeply, wholly, and unconditionally.

Sarah Grube, the world is so tangibly worse without you. I love you to the moon and back, and I will miss you every day until the end of time. Rest easy, you little rascal.

Sarah Lauren Grube (June 14th, 2000 – April 12th, 2024), leading a University of New Haven workers’ picket line earlier this year. (Credit: New Haven Register)

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What’s On

NOTE: All concerts take place in the evening unless otherwise noted.

Parlando: The Other Mozart Effect
Wed May 1 | Merkin Hall, Kaufman Center

Clarion Music Society: Bach’s Mass in B minor
Wed May 1 | Park Avenue Christian Church

Met Opera: El Niño
Wed May 1
Sat May 4 (matinee)
Wed May 8
Sat May 11
Fri May 17
The Metropolitan Opera House

Trinity Wall Street: Monteverdi Vespers (FREE, SOLD OUT)
Thu May 2 | Trinity Church, Wall Street

Bang on a Can Long Play Festival
Fri May 3 – Sun May 5 (all day) | various locations (Downtown Brooklyn)

Junction Trio
Fri May 3 | Carnegie Hall (Weill)

Parthenia Viols: UPON REFLECTION
Sat May 4 & Sun May 5 (matinee) | DiMenna Center

Met Opera: Madama Butterfly
Sat May 4
Tue May 7
Sat May 11 (matinee)
The Metropolitan Opera House

Music Before 1800: La Morra
Sun May 5 (matinee) | Corpus Christi Church

Opera Lafayette: Mouret’s Les Fêtes de Thalie
Tue May 7 (6pm) | El Museo del Barrio
NOTE: Also at the Kennedy Center in DC on May 3-4.

Regula Mühlemann, soprano & Tatiana Korsunskaya, piano
Wed May 8 | Carnegie Hall (Weill)

Orchestra of St. Luke’s: Brahms’s German Requiem
Thu May 9 | Carnegie Hall (Stern/Perelman)

Opera Lafayette: From Saint-Cyr to Cannons
Thu May 9 | St. Peter’s Church

Robert Ashley: Foreign Experiences
Thu-Sat May 9-11 | Roulette Intermedium (Brooklyn)

Juilliard415: Chamber Music
Fri-Sat May 10-11 | The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Little Opera Theatre of NY: Jupiter’s Journey to the Earth (Haydn)
Fri May 10, Sat May 11 (two shows), & Sun May 12 | Baryshnikov Arts Center
NOTE: For people of all ages (7+)

The Sebastians: The 24 Violins Cross the Alps
Sat May 11 (early evening) | Brick Presbyterian Church

Bronx Opera: Iolanthe
Sat May 11 & Sun May 12 (matinee)
Fri May 17 & Sat May 18 (matinee)
Lovinger Theatre, Lehman College

Huang Ruo: An American Soldier
Sun May 12 – Sun May 19 | Perelman Performing Arts Center

Decoda: Reverberations
Tue May 14 | Carnegie Hall (Weill)

Stephan Crump: “Slow Water” Album Release
Wed May 15 (two sets) | The Jazz Gallery

City Lyric Opera & Music at Co-Cath: Brittens Five Canticles
Thu May 16 & Sat May 18 | The Co-Cathedral of St. Joseph (Brooklyn)

Kris Davis’ Pyroclastic Records Festival
Fri May 17 & Sat May 18 (two sets each) | The Jazz Gallery

Paul Lewis, piano: All-Schubert
Sun May 19 (matinee) | The Town Hall

Matthew Polenzani, tenor & Ken Noda, piano
Mon May 20 & Wed May 22 | Park Avenue Armory

Takt Trio Plays Ligeti
Mon May 20 (6pm) | Miller Theatre, Columbia University

Shall We Gather At The River
Tue May 21 | Park Avenue Armory

Ivalas Quartet
Tue May 21 | Carnegie Hall (Weill)

Weston Olencki + TAK Ensemble
Tue May 21 | Roulette Intermedium (Brooklyn)

Twelfth Night: Elemental (SOLD OUT)
Thu May 23 | Carnegie Hall (Weill)

Patricia Brennan & Sylvie Courvoisier: TALAMANTI
Thu May 23 (two sets) | The Jazz Gallery

John Zorn: New Masada Quartet
Fri May 24 (two sets) | Roulette Intermedium (Brooklyn)

Angel’s Share: Spring, Strings, and Tasty Things
Fri May 24 (two shows) | Green-Wood Cemetery (Brooklyn)

Ekmeles: Octet
Sat May 25 | DiMenna Center