With heavy hearts, the DMAA is sorry to announce the untimely passing of Robert Carl Gavrell ’97. Rob died in a motorcycle accident in Colorado on September 25, 2021, just two weeks after celebrating his 46th birthday, and left the world a much less interesting and vibrant place without him in it.
A renaissance man who rowed crew his freshman year while singing second tenor in the Duke’s Men, Rob was a unique fixture in campus life in the late ’90s. He served as Winter Tour Manager his sophomore year, sang the solos on two tracks on “Mom” his junior year – both of which were live recordings, speaking volumes of his vocal talent – and was selected to join the Whiffenpoofs his senior year. He remained active in alumni affairs, attending every doox reunion after graduation.
The list of accolades and roles both at Yale and after (park-ranger-turned-attorney?!?) fail to capture the essence of the man, which is exactly how Rob liked it. Rob challenged any limit that pleased him but showed everyone respect. At the same time, he never seemed entirely tethered to the ground and always inspired others to feel grounded in who they were, all with appropriate disregard for other’s expectations. Rob defied convention and hated being put in a box. He had an energy and charisma all his own which was guided by a loving heart, a keen wit, and an unmatched unselfishness. He never took anything more seriously than friends and family. Many people considered him to be their best friend, a fact that became clear at his funeral and memorial which were attended by several doox contemporaries, all of whom were honored to sing, speak, and tell stories in his memory.
Rob leaves behind his wife, Stacey, and his two young daughters, Emma and Jocelyn. His full obituary can be found here: https://www.farnumholtfuneralhome.com/memorials/robert-gavrell/4741907/index.php
And his funeral service here: https://fb.watch/9rsI7A2HDd/
Those so wishing can donate to a fund established for his daughters here: https://www.gofundme.com/f/emmajocelyntrustaccounts
In addition to this brief tribute, additional remembrances from our DMAA family can be found below. Those wishing to add their stories are welcome to do so.
Ramón Esquivel ’97 spoke at Rob’s Memorial:
Rob and I were in the same class at Yale College. We met when we were tapped into the Duke’s Men, an a cappella singing group that was also an instant group of friends. Rob and I were also tapped together into a seniors-only group called the Whiffenpoofs. It was with the Whiffs that Rob and I literally travelled and saw the world together. In the summer world tour that capped off our year, we traveled to twenty-six countries in three months. That was an astounding pace, but it was the pace that Rob would live the rest of his life. Seeing all these photos of Rob, I can’t believe how many extraordinary experiences he lived. What would be once-in-a-lifetime experiences for most of us, Rob would do four of them in a month.
Talking to our friends from Yale, everyone will tell you how wild and funny and adventurous and playful and spontaneous Rob was. It was common before a concert, dressed in a coat and tie or even a tuxedo, for Rob to suddenly go climb a tree. He was constantly breaking things, seemingly for the sheer delight of it. Our group gave him the nickname “Marmaduke” because of this.
But there were sides of Rob that not everyone saw at that age: the contemplative Rob; the philosophical Rob; the logical Rob; the serious Rob. I remember Rob telling me once that it bothered him that some classmates never seemed to take him seriously.
I think that moving to Colorado in his 20s was a way for Rob to live a life that allowed him to be his fullest self. The wild spirit who was also a devoted family man. The adventurer who treasured home more than anything. Someone who cherished both spontaneity and justice. The friend who loved everyone, and who everyone loved, because he saw what made you special. That’s why Rob’s photographs are so good. He had an artist’s eye of capturing the special way that he saw you; the unique way that he loved you.
I want to leave you with an image of Rob. Our sophomore year of college, we are on a winter tour of the British and U.S. Virgin Islands. To celebrate New Year’s Eve, we all take water taxis to this “party island” called Jost Von Dyke. I’ll skip ahead to the next morning, and Rob is … “asleep” on the water taxi going back to our hotel. Towel over his head, slumped over, but bouncing with the waves. And as the morning sun hits him, warms him, Rob lifts his head, and that big smile that we all know and love spreads across his face.
Rob is with us right now. I imagine him with that same smile on his face, basking in the sunshine of our love.
From David Tittle ’99:
We called you “Marmaduke”
We called you
Marmaduke
(Among other things)
Because of the outsized,
Chaotic energy
You could bring to any room…
Because of the way
You would zoom and fall
Up halls, down stairs…
Because of the cares
And fucks you didn’t give…
Because the way you live
(“Lived”? I can’t yet say it!)
Made the rest of us look
Like fools for living by the rules,
By the book
Written by less
Liberated souls.
Truth be told,
I sometimes hated,
Your unpredictability,
Your volatility…
But what I hate more
(So much more!)
Is how boring humanity seems
Without you careening
Off the walls…
Without your random doox calls
Startling me
From mindless walks…
Without the hope of one more
Of those unsurprisingly deep
Talks that never left my
Outlook unchanged…
Perspective rearranged.
We called you
Marmaduke
Because of your propensity
For breaking things…
For sometimes shaking things
A little too hard
For the purposes
Of the comfort and safety
We swore we wanted.
Because you tore through
Those china shops,
A bull, undaunted
By propriety, society or
(Dare I say it?)
Sobriety.
So fitting, then, that we
Are, once again,
Following behind you
Carrying pieces of feelings
And memories
You shattered
And scattered
In your brilliant dash to be
(Permanently)
As, perhaps, only you could ever be…
Well and truly free.
We called you
Marmaduke
Because we loved you.
Because we’ll miss you.
Because the way we were
Before you
Can never be restored.
And we are better for it.
From Mark Torres ’98:
Right after the end of World Tour, I returned to my parents home in NY and fell into a deep depression.
At the time I thought, “What could I ever do next that would come even remotely close to what I just did?” Instead of feeling gratitude for what I’d just experienced, I felt empty.
Rob called me out of the blue. “Come to Colorado,” he said. “Come visit and check it out. What do you have to lose?”
I packed two weeks worth of clothes into a duffel bag and flew into Denver. I remember standing at passenger pickup in the late afternoon, and he comes screaming up to the curb in his black Oldsmobile Alero, with the windows rolled down and the music blaring.
A moment later we’re peeling out of the airport and over the car radio he shouts his big news – there’s a party in my honor at his house, and we are raging into the night.
He tells me about the place he’s been living, which they call the Crack House. It earned that name because one of the previous roommates was an actual crack addict, and they found him buck naked humping the tree out front. Apparently that’s enough to get kicked out as a roommate, and so there’s a recent vacancy.
When we pull up to the Crack House, it’s already early evening, and the party has just begun. The front door is wide open and I hear music, and there’s a dude with no shirt on playing a didgeridoo on the front porch. “Who is that?”, I asked. “No idea,” said Rob.
What happened next I can only describe as bacchanalia. I recall meeting the incredible group of people Rob had assembled and all of whom admired him greatly.
The next morning I woke up on some scrap of floor I’d found. Cotton-Eyed Joe was blasting from the stereo and Rob was wide awake, cleaning up after the party (I learned later that loud music was his method of clearing the house out after one of their parties. It was very common for folks to wander in off the street and stick around until the morning.)
A dozen or so of Rob’s closest Colorado friends and I got together for a “champagne brunch” at someone’s apartment (meaning, mimosas all around, and garbage plates filled with breakfast food meant to quell hangovers). Between swapping stories about what we remembered of the night before, Rob finds an article in the Westword (our version of the VIllage Voice) that there’s a rodeo happening in Wyoming. “We’re going! Let’s stop at a wild west store along the way and dress the part.”
A few hours later, we’re wearing a bizarre assortment of hastily purchased countrywear, and we’ve made it to the rodeo – The Granddaddy of Em All – Cheyenne Frontier Days.
That night, we saw Styx and Don McClain live in concert, and I turned to Rob and said, “I can’t go back now. They’ll never believe me.” He smiled and said, “That was the plan all along. I’m kicking a few of the roommates out, and you’re moving in. You know the drunk dude who you immediately bonded with? That’s Matty. He graduated from MIT, and he’s our third roommate. We’re just getting started.”
I have so many stories of the antics and adventures of Rob and that crew from the years I spent with them in Denver. And I have all of that thanks to Rob, who with a single expression of care asked me to come visit, and some twenty years later I still call Colorado my home.
Memory is a funny thing. I can’t remember what I ate three days ago for dinner, but I remember the events of that weekend, from the airport pickup through my conversation with Rob at the rodeo like they happened yesterday.
Rob was a lot of things, but he was never dull. In fact, I think he fought against being dull with every fiber in his being, and I will always remember the burst of energy and excitement when he arrived somewhere, and the absence of energy when he left. That’s what I feel now, and I can only imagine what his wife and two little girls are going through. Rob was a special guy, and I don’t think he knew how special he was to those of us who admired him. He is sorely missed, and I’m tearing up as I write this.
In my mind, there are three things that were quintessential Rob – his expressions of care (many people called him their best friend), his sense of adventure, and his gift for making the mundane fun. I think of those three things and what I can bring to people around me. That’s how I’ve chosen to honor his memory.
