Kirk begins with a brief instrumental invitation to his lonely café of
sounds. “Rainy Day Dream,” merely 33 seconds, is long enough to prepare
us for “Under The Weather,” the opening song. This melody made of jazzy
nights in a low-rent section of Paris, fondles and seduces clichés to
get them out of the way while at the same time emphasizing their
importance to a soul being exposed to the shadows of the universe. The
lyrical warning, “You won’t know what hit you,” is perfectly placed to
prepare for the blows to come.
“Lost Soul” follows. The “Adams Apocalypse” is like Miller’s “Rosy
Crucifixion,” it won’t be the end of the world, per se, but nothing is
going to be the same. Kirk’s knee-jerk reaction is to call his lost
soul back. But the words “Lost soul/you’re not alone/lost soul/come
home” fall on deaf ears as a last-ditch and futile effort to bring back
the view of life that once came naturally.
As “Remind Me” ensues, the listener must be aware that the sounds of
these songs are themselves the phrasing of their sensations. Kirk has
produced a dark, foreboding and moody atmosphere that gives his poetry
a soundtrack. And the masterful playing by Kirk, Patrick Bettison,
Craig Benson, Larry Rubin and Gale Trippsmith never grandstands a song.
These are distinct tracks, clear and defined with strong yet simple
arrangements that care first about the work, which is, of course, the
foundation of the loyalty in all great art.
“Remind Me,” a verbal command, is also a plea. It produces tears of
mourning, sorrow and disappointment. Wanting to be reminded “how to
love you” (the lost soul forgot, after all), segues into “Mumbleweed,”
a song that defies its own melody and punctuates the need for needing
to be reminded of what is meant to flow naturally. Kirk’s use of lonely
guitar notes following some of the melodic strain is like that perfect
piece of subtle furniture a director places on the set of a stage play.
Subtle brilliance that makes a major impact only when it is missing.
“Apple Sun” appropriately continues the walk down this dark sense of
awakening. This is more a painting than a song, with a floating,
bittersweet melody. The metaphor strikes without mercy. It was the
apple that the devil used to give knowledge to Adam and Eve, the
knowledge that challenged God’s monopoly on the big picture and opened
their eyes to pain and suffering, elements of life humans know only
when they are truly awakened.
“Icy Finger” points the way to the barren, desolate future that we see
once we are aware of knowledge. Kirk’s guide does not have the fiery
finger of hell. No, it has the frozen finger of the futile endings in
the hinterlands of isolation. “They’re makin’ plans to wreck the dawn,”
he sings, and we will have to look a little more closely from now on to
discern its eventfulness.
Kirk is obviously expressing a great level of discomfort having his
eyes wide open. “Never seen a darker day than this,” he sings in “Love
A Lie.” Indeed, the light of awakening is so bright and the strength it
takes to accept all that is real is, well, a bitch. And this is why, as
“fingers tremble and hurt,” he is “remembering bathing in the light,”
from “Halo,” arguably the CD’s most melodic entry. This is the
admission that nothing less than divine help can put the order into the
chaos, though there is only a glimmer of hope in the possibility that
such a power might surface.
Just when you think you have the tools to withstand the barrage of
reality hurled upon you, Kirk ensues with a definition of state, a
punctuation of position. “Used to feel like a Mojo Man/Now I feel like
a fish on dry land,” he says in “Fish On Dry Land.” In the title tune
that follows, he cries again, “They’re draggin’ me down,” probably
because even the little elevator’s walls are closing in on him. On us.
View of a Masterpiece
“Maybe It’s Late,” tells us what Dylan said in “Not Dark Yet,” only in
the context of this entire work, Kirk tells us about “dreams that never
converge” at a time when this play should be kicking into a third act.
But there will only be a slight change in the character’s outlook as
the final song, “Soldier On” plays. It is subtle advice with a strong
sense of fight; after all, why use the word ‘soldier’ as a verb unless
there is more combat to face on the now well-defined battlefield?
Capping this resolution is the brief instrumental “Lonesome Monster,”
which does not stomp off stage but does not drag its legs in futility
either.
This is just one view of a masterpiece, qualified as thus because it is
filled with munificent metaphor and an abundance of allegory and
allusion, all in perfect alignment with its music. What’s more, all of
it flows from the creator and settles into a vat of universal
definition. That is why “Little Elevator” is not just another CD where
the person or group of its origin whines about lost loves and wallows
in its own putrid sense of ego. Kirk has found the courage of
deconstruction in his personality, technical skill and showmanship. He
has lifted his lyrics from pulp to poetry and, as all great artists
awakened, is now ready to die and hates that fact.
Long live Kirk Adams, who I see regularly when I enter the little elevator.
For more information go to: http://www.kirkadamsmusic.com.
Frank Cotolo can be found hosting the talk and interview programme
Cotolo
Chronicles, every Thursday starting at 9 pm on Network 1KX.