Freyda Epstein has died.

Charlottesville musician Freyda Epstein died this week. On Monday night, her car was hit head-on by an escaping criminal, and she was killed in the crash. We were merely acquainted, and I couldn’t bring myself to go to the memorial service that was held this evening. Though she was a great musician on many fronts, I most admired her vocal work. Her performance with Brady Earnhart on his wonderful 1997 solo release, After You, is my favorite. (It’s one of my favorite albums. I listen to it constantly, even now, six years after it was released.) All of her work on the album is understated, to the point that a listener could easily miss her on a first listen. “

” is a good example. Sure, the song would would have worked without her, but it would have been weakened fatally. Instead of making herself look good, she labored quietly, in the background, helping others shine.

I’m not so sad at the thought of Freyda’s death as I am at the thought of all of the good friends that she’s leaving behind, left to sift through her life, learning to talk about her using a entirely new tense of verb. Was. Did. Loved.