by Aly Eleanor (@purityolympics)
Dan Knishkowy has been asking questions lately. Several songs on his latest album as Adeline Hotel end with the upswing of uncertainty: album opener “How Did I Get So Lucky?” and the spiraling “Isn’t That Enough?” make this literal, but even the titular throughline of “Whodunnit” is a whimsical condensation of a familiar ask. Who did it? Couched within early 20th century detective stories, Knishkowy isn’t searching for something so clear cut as a criminal. His musings, accompanied by intimately fingerpicked guitar and washes of harmony, eschew the narrow focus of the immediate present and place his ponderings amidst the grandest and most undefinable doubts. “It’s only then I start to wonder / if it’s strange to need somebody,” as sung right into your ear, is fated to remain without answer — and you must make peace with it.
The strangeness possessed by every particle of life and living is the framework for the explorations of Whodunnit, the seventh LP from the Ruination Records co-founder, songwriter, and multi-instrumentalist. A sweeping discography is condensed into gorgeous and surreal musings. It’s fitting for such a stream-of-consciousness record to start discreetly, with acoustic guitar and gusts of wind. Even as Knishkowy threads narrative into his strikingly strange imagery, the wind is what carries his words forward. They tumble like a freshly-fallen leaf ecstatic to be approaching the earth. Every accident and every second lead into unexpected futures.
This proclivity to wander doesn’t come at the expense of structure. The glue of melody and the formlessness of putty meld together into a new substance that is quiet, never boring, and deeply expressive. Most of Whodunnit is spent in the company of just vocals and guitar, but the strength of the core patterns proves that is more than enough — flourishes of keys, percussion, and upright bass add warmth to alread-flushed cheeks. It’s never overbearing, content to consort, like Winston Cook-Wilson’s piano on “I Will Let Your Flowers Grow,” or the soft harmonies embellishing the refrain’s repetition. Knishkowy’s voice is high and slightly raspy, yet controlled to great effect.
The spiral into vulnerability doesn’t shake any bitterness loose from the branches. Mutuality, between people or past and present selves, is captured with unbiased transparency. A microscopic focus on real feelings and events goes so far inward that it transcends autobiography and becomes infectious hope. “Joy and laughter takes a long time,” Knishkowy sings on “Joy.” Bitterness comes quickly but tends to trap feelings in rotten amber. It’ll be hours before the sun rises, but the horizon will be lucky enough to feel its creeping, benevolent gaze before long, and so will you.