Todd Rundgren has spent the last thirty years avoiding categorization, regularly shedding his skin and taking sharp, deliberate left turns at every opportunity. So the news that he was going to do something "normal" -- tour in the time-honored power trio format -- was itself noteworthy. Previously, he has toured with a large band, as a solo acoustic artist, with an a cappella setup, in a cocktail lounge combo and with Ringo. But this is the first time he has done the guitar-bass-drum thing.
However, the show he brought to Seattle's King Cat Theater was, for him, pretty standard: a selection of songs from every bend in his career, with unexpected surprises balanced by familiar anthems. His self-effacing wisecracks offset by wide-eyed fan adulation. Voyages from melody to mayhem, and back again.
All this jumping around had a defocusing effect, so he never really explored how his songs could thrive in the power trio format. Too bad, because the peaks made you not really care if Cream ever got back together again. He opened with the new song cut from the same cloth as the kind of pop numbers he used to churn out in his sleep, "I Hate My Frickin' ISP." He then spat out usually bright numbers like "Couldn't I Just Tell You" and "Love of the Common Man." So far, this wasn't much different than any of his concerts from 1978 on, except his voice wasn't holding up as well.
Then, with "Black and White," everything changed. The anger bubbling under the previous numbers exploded. He ferocious attack popped a D-string, and the replacement guitar -- a green Strat copy that he played for most of the night -- was considerably louder and crisper than the first instrument. Bassist Kasim Sulton and drummer Trey Sabatelli provided the backdrop for everything from early Nazz to three songs from an album due out next week.
Sulton, who has played with Rundgren since 1976, was solid and adventurous, while Sabatelli ripped out a page from the Keith Moon notebook: Why play four beats when twelve will do? These embellishments were never out of place. "Open My Eyes," after all, is only an inversion of "I Can't Explain." The vocal weakness -- apparently a product of the Pacific Northwest weather -- became irrelevant as Rundgren made the guitar wail through "The Ikon," a jumpy instrumental, and "Number 1 Lowest Common Denominator," channeling Jimi Hendrix in the shadow of the new museum that celebrates his legacy.
Out in the lobby, a Rundgren cohort in a Hawaiian shirt explained "Patronet," an online service that builds an online bridge between artists and their audience. It's been operating off and on for a few years, which is why many of those here tonight are already familiar with the new songs. The service is getting a facelift, where fans can visit 3D virtual rooms as they pay a subscription that brings them into Rundgren's private world. Pretty impressive technology, and Rundgren's developed much of it himself. In recent years, Rundgren's become more involved in this technology than the music, and his newer records have reflected those impulses. But this tour chases a more organic muse, and reminds us why we even cared about him in the first place.
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