An early morning rain splattered against the skylights. I navigated the semi-darkness of the living room with the dexterity of a drunk, stumbling a few steps before self-correcting the next. The bumbling was thanks to—who else?—that darn cat, who shepherded me to his breakfast nook by brushing against my legs. I worried not that I might trip, but that I might inadvertently hurt him if I did.
It’s odd, the things that run through my mind during such hours. The labels we slap on songs and albums, for instance, often have little to do with genre. Some releases seem designed for headphone escape from the madness of an overly bright and loud “open” office, while others work best late in the night, when one’s weary and worn out not just from the workday but the sadness that punctuates much of modern life. (To borrow a line from the poet Denise Levertov, “The news—always of death.”) Adeline Hotel’s Whodunnit is not morning maniac music meant to soundtrack a sweaty workout nor is it upbeat noise sure to enliven a crawling commute. I’m not positive where it fits, just that it’s a compelling listen.
Adeline Hotel is not a band, by the way, but Brooklyn-based Dan Knishkowy, who’s been releasing music under that motel moniker for about a decade. Fellow singer-scribe Katie Von Schleicher helmed the production for Whodunnit, while drummer Sean Mullins, keyboardist Winston Cook-Wilson, bassist Carmen Quill and vocalist Jackie West slip in and out of the songs, which flip past like chapters in a Joycean-inspired mystery.
Whodunnit is an acoustic, surrealistic yet self-effacing confessional, the sound of someone coming to terms with the dissolution of a marriage—not with rancor and rage, as they’re little more than emotional cages that keep us from honest reflection, but forgiveness and grace. If love is a flower, it blooms large before, for many, withering away. Blame drought, neglect or just the season. In truth, however, there’s not always a rhyme or reason. To quote Knishkowy: “In a misdirected verb, I crawled right through you and you crawled through me/I took out cash and went to be, someone that you’d want to see, so I was useful.”
The title track is a six-minute Dylanesque jumble of the rumbles that mar many marriages, including his, and ends with a cutting observation: “Embrace the sharpest knife, you know I can’t deny the thunder/In another phase, another life, only then I start to wonder/If it’s strange to need somebody?” That the opus comes early is somewhat of a surprise, but within the construct of the album—and the story’s arc—it makes sense. A few songs later, on “Egg on My Face,” the question turns to a statement of fact: “It’s strange to need anyone.”
“Isn’t That Enough?” encapsulates the self-delusions that accent many relationships (of all stripes) from the get-go: “Besides the side of me that I let you see, you let me be, and isn’t that enough?” Rhetorical though it may be, the question reveals its own answer; love is destined to fail if one or both halves in the relationship hide themselves from another. “I Will Let Your Flowers Grow,” on the other hand, is a recognition that letting the other leave is for the best—for you and for them. “Possible Lives” ends the album looking back and looking forward, grateful for the chance to have loved (and been loved) and hoping to love again.
The Old Grey Cat 
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