There are albums that become monuments because they capture a singular moment in time for an artist, and then there’s Something/Anything?, which feels less like a monument and more like a fever dream committed to tape. It’s the sound of Todd Rundgren, barely into his twenties, deciding he could do absolutely everything himself, and then mostly pulling it off with a casual brilliance that still feels audacious today.
You put this on, especially that first side, and it's a masterclass in pop songwriting. "I Saw the Light" opens with such a pristine, almost innocent melodic charm. The arrangement is deceptively simple, yet every instrument is placed with surgical precision. It's the kind of track that makes you lean in, realizing just how much care went into capturing that sound.
And it was his care, almost entirely. For the first three sides of this double LP, Rundgren was the sole performer, the engineer, the producer, the arranger. He’d learned his craft with Nazz, and then sharpened his studio skills producing albums for the likes of Badfinger and The Band. By 1972, he was ready to unleash his own vision without compromise.
He recorded much of it at Bearsville Studios, just outside Woodstock, New York, a place steeped in rock history. But the magic was less about the room and more about Todd's hands on the console, his fingers on the keys, his feet on the kick drum. The sheer virtuosity, the ability to switch from guitar to bass to drums to piano, all while laying down impeccable vocals and harmonies, is breathtaking.
The Sound of Overwhelm
The album is divided into four distinct sides, which makes sense because it’s a journey. The first side, sometimes jokingly called "A Wizard, A True Star?" (foreshadowing his next album), is all Todd, all pop hooks. "Hello It's Me," a rerecording of a Nazz track, is delivered with a newfound warmth and sophistication.
You can hear the growth, the confidence in his voice. This version, with its lush strings and gentle percussion (courtesy of Jim Gordon on drums, one of the few outside players), just melts into the evening air. It’s a perfect track for unwinding.
The second and third sides continue this multi-instrumental exploration, venturing into harder rock with tracks like "Couldn't I Just Tell You," a powerful, proto-power pop anthem that influenced countless bands. The guitars here are punchy, the drums tight, all crafted by one man. The basslines are particularly noteworthy—Todd played a Fender Mustang bass, often direct-injected to keep that clarity.
There’s a raw energy, even in the meticulously layered arrangements. It's a reminder that self-production isn't always about perfection; sometimes it's about pure, unadulterated expression. You get a sense of his boundless creativity, the ideas flowing faster than he could write them down.
The Full Picture
The fourth side is where other musicians finally make an appearance, and it feels like a party after a long, intense studio lockdown. Guys like Rick Derringer lend a hand, and the sound opens up a bit, becoming more of a collaborative effort, though still firmly under Rundgren’s vision. It’s a little looser, a little more R&B-inflected.
The entire double album clocks in at just under 90 minutes, and while some critics might find it sprawling, I find it endlessly fascinating. It's like wandering through the mind of a musical genius, catching glimpses of brilliance in every genre he touches. There are moments of sheer audacity next to moments of heartbreaking beauty.
It’s an album that demands your attention, but rewards it tenfold. It’s a testament to the power of a singular artistic vision, a record that could only have been made at that specific time, by that specific person. Put it on, settle in, and let Todd take you on a journey. It’s a long one, but it’s worth every minute.