Christopher Mcmullen-Laird

My condolences to Chris's family and friends. I will always remember our passionate talks about music and early instruments - Chris always challenged me to question the multiple ways of making and seeing music, and I remember him with the joy he always transmitted.

Sending my condolences to Chris’ family and friends. He directed ‘The Tempest’ for the’Yorke Trust’ South Creake last year and everyone involved respected his ambitious ideas and ways of working. Chris has the innate ability to hold attention and everyone felt they were being personally tutored.. Working again on the ‘Come and Sing’ day he worked us hard and wouldn’t settle for anything than ‘the best’. A lovely guy who lit up the room sadly gone!! Sending my regards to everyone who knew him. We’ll miss you! Jill Catmull

My heartfelt condolences to Chris's family and friends. I was lucky to work with Chris a few times when we were in RCM. I still remember how cheerful and energetic Chris was in every rehearsal and performance, bringing joy to everyone around him. This news is too sudden and hard to believe. It is my pleasure to have met Chris in my life. Chris will be always remembered in our hearts.

My deepest condolences. Really sad news. Although I only came across Chris a few times he really made a huge impression on me. He gave me strength and inspired me to really focus on my music and give my best performance for him and welcomed me in two groups where I felt I didn't belong, and was always smiling. The last time I met him we parted and he said that he was looking forward to when our paths would cross again. What a tragedy and my thoughts to the family, husband and close friends.

Sending my sincerest condolences. I am deeply sorry for your loss. I will remember Christopher as a great musician who gave inspiration to so many of us at RCM and I'm sure beyond. I always wanted to have a longer conversation with him and I am devastated to now realise that will not happen. Requiescat in pace.

Dear Sindre, Lydia, Purple, Samuel, Molly and Quentin, You don’t know me, but I knew your son, brother, husband. There are no words for what has happened. Still it doesn’t feel like an option not to reach out, and share with you how much he touched my life. He was a constant inspiration to me. Here is a short version of our story: In 2009, I was living in Berlin where I had started a small play-reading group. On Dec. 8, an email from one Christopher Quentin McMullen-Laird appeared in my inbox: Amy, I'd love to join your group, I am a conductor and have always read plays out loud, mostly by myself...this sounds great! Where? Chris (aka Zeke) This was the beginning of what was (for me) a very unique friendship. Zeke and I didn’t have a shared group of friends or colleagues or institution (although we did eventually figure out that he studied at Dartmouth with my older sister, Katie). Typically, it was just us, meeting up at cafés, restaurants, parks, brainstorming how to navigate our lives and careers as young Americans living in Germany. In those early days, our overactive brains generated concepts non-stop: one early (and in hindsight totally embarrassing) idea was for a semi-staged version of Evita; later (when we were a bit more mature), we wanted to restore a lost George M. Cohan score to explore the jingoistic roots of the American musical. But around 2016 there came a point when both of our careers were gaining traction in different directions, and we decided to put the collaboration on hold. It was clear enough: we would work together. Someday. Later. Our nomadic lives meant that Zeke and I rarely saw one another, but when we did, I always came out revived, inspired, and empowered. A visit with Zeke was like hitting the refresh button on life. He introduced me to the café corretto, taught me that eggs do not need to live in the fridge, and showed me how I could choose to produce less waste if I wanted to. (Zeke, of course, gave credit to his sister for this moment of enlightenment. He was a rare champion of women.) Not only was he meticulous and disciplined about his work, he was strict about making time and space for other endeavours. Zeke always inspired me to live my own life better. The last time we spoke was on March 10th. That morning, Zeke sent me a message, making sure I had voted. I had. Later that night, while phone-banking for Bernie Sanders, I saw the name Molly McMullen-Laird in the Slack, and sent him a screenshot. He laughed. We briefly talked about the pandemic, our country, and, as always, our work. At the end, he wrote, “Be wary of those fermatas!!!” Yes, I agreed, it’s been too long. Let’s arrange a visit. We will. Someday. Later. Now there is no more later, and my heart is broken. But amidst the chaos of the tears and rage and shock, there is one thing that has provided me with some solace. I think had Zeke known his life would be cut so short, he wouldn’t (or couldn’t) have done anything any differently. He lived his life to the fullest every day: cooking, hiking, being with friends, and making music. Being a human. Not a machine. In his memory, I want to live my life more like Zeke, to take that mini-break to the mountains, to spend that hour before bed to educate myself about topics outside of my work, to fight harder for economic, ecological and racial justice. Not someday later. But today. Because clearly that’s all we have. Each time I texted with Zeke, our conversation ended with him sending his regards to my boyfriend, and me extending mine to his husband. Now I have to do this myself. Hello Sindre. I am so, so sorry. My deepest condolences to you all. If you need anything in Germany, please ask me. Otherwise, excuse me for interrupting your grief, but Zeke meant too much to me. Yours, Amy

To Zeke's family: I am very sorry for your tremendous loss. I met Zeke freshman year at Dartmouth. We lived in the same dorm, Russell-Sage, and later we lived on the same hall again, in the French & Italian-speaking quarters. Zeke was bright, bubbly, overflowing with life, like a sparkling rainbow. The world was more beautiful with him in it. Sincerely, Mary Bell, Dartmouth '05

May all who miss Christopher, especially his husband, family and friends find some measure of peace and solace. I’m very sorry for your, and our loss. Sagan’s words might not have been meant for this situation, but they apply: “The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff.” And there he will be, in the night’s sky twinkling and giving us light.