Dave worked at the studio since before there was a studio, most notably building all the furniture and fittings for the studio, and we were close friends for a long time prior. Dave was beloved here, maybe uniquely. He wanted to do things on his terms or not at all, something all of us can identify with, and his sense of humor was as pithy as it was correct. While we were running buddies in the 80s and early 90s we played a lot of billiards, took a couple trips, and saw a lot of music. These were formative times for me and I will always remember him with great affection for his enthusiasm and easy, adventurous spirit.
Dave went to college in DeKalb, where he and future members of the band Tar became friends, and they all migrated to Chicago together in the late 80s. For some time they lived in a derelict barber shop in Wicker Park. In that spell he was nicknamed the Diamond, I think by John Forbes, and became a bit of a fixture in the scene, a fun, friendly guy who used a gruff countenance as a comic foil to a pithy, insightful sense of humor. We both played pool and simultaneously took a liking to three-cushion billiards, the more esoteric table game, and we played a lot together. We spontaneously took a road trip to San Francisco to see a big national tournament, driving the whole way in one shot, sharing driving duty, listening to mostly the Minutemen on the car stereo. It wasn't until we were on the road that we realized neither one of us had a valid drivers license and the plates on my car were expired. Both of us were convinced that the other had done the leg through Nebraska, and neither of us remembered a single thing about it.
He first worked for me as an accountant, essentially self-taught, doing the books on the recording business I ran out of a bungalow about a mile North of where Electrical sits today. He was so good at it that he was headhunted by Touch and Go records to do the accounting for their entire operation, overseeing a payroll and handling bills and receivables worth millions of dollars. His then-boss was Corey Rusk, who told me several times that David was better at the job than any of the credentialed professionals who preceded him.
In 1996, when I started building Electrical Audio, Dave told me he wanted to join the construction crew, to work with his hands doing something tangible and get away from office work. He had no experience in that either, but quickly became a savvy structural engineer and carpenter. He took a particular liking to woodworking and taught himself the craft, becoming an expert, and built almost every stick of furniture in our studio. Dozens of chairs, tables, beds, counters and cabinets. He was a true artist and his furniture is beautiful and sturdy beyond comparison. I work every day in a beautiful studio, and it is beautiful because of Dave.
While making useful things for the studio, the Diamond invented or devised new ways of building, making use of salvaged or reclaimed materials, and was particularly adept at finishing. All his pieces look clean, simple, sturdy and elegant, and show the nature of the wood and design, with no ornamentation to clutter them. I am convinced that if he had opened a studio to sell his furniture, he would have been successful if not famous for it. We often get compliments on the design of the studio and its fittings, and I know they are complimenting Dave.
While the studio was running at full capacity in the 90s and 2000s, Dave was an everyday fixture here, beavering away in the basement making, fixing and inventing the fittings and furniture we still use every day. He mostly kept to himself, but when he did say something, it was usually correct, insightful and often extremely funny. He maintained the building, the heating, electrical and plumbing systems in addition to building everything we used.
Dave did a passable Glenn Danzig impression, and a band was formed to take advantage of this, the Ms Fits, who opened the "legendary" Halloween show at Lounge Ax where Shellac performed as the Sex Pistols with David Yow as Johnny Rotten. There exists a recording of the Ms Fits doing their set, and if I can find it I'll post it.
As the new millennium clicked into a new decade, Dave suffered from depression, and as it worsened he withdrew, becoming more insular and solitary. He worked alone and interacted with no one unless absolutely necessary. Eventually he stopped coming in to work, and after a couple of months of us both trying to make his situation more dependable, he decided he couldn't work at the studio any more. I was sad to see him go, tried to set him up with a couple of furniture shops I knew, where maybe his skill and artistry could bloom, but he didn't get along in those workplaces either.
Eventually he stopped replying to any communication, and for more than a decade he actively made himself hard to find. His family contacted the studio several times in the interim asking if we knew his whereabouts. We had some sketchy info, an employer called for a reference and we were able to find him briefly, to let him know he still had some un-cashed paychecks, but it was obvious he wasn't interested in reconnecting. The way he isolated himself in decline always left me wondering if there was more I could have done to keep him in our company, keep him among the people who appreciated him. It feels like we failed him, though I know everything about his life came by his choosing, one of the things I admired about him, if not necessarily the choices.
I loved David and admired how he made an artist out of himself in service of just wanting to do it. I will treasure the furniture he made as talismans of the guy I knew, as keepsakes of him when he was most comfortable.
Requiescat Diamond Dave DuVall, who made furniture out of wood.
