Fog's Minnesota driver's license is inscribed with the name his mama gave him (a comparably unromantic Andrew Broder), and the shrewdest Minneapolis hipsters might recognize him by his club moniker, the farcically straightforward DJ Andrew, but on Ether Teeth-- his second full-length-- he is, conveniently, all Fog. Broder's latest alias is an appropriate metaphor for Ether Teeth's eleven wispy, befuddling tracks: alternately gorgeous and jarring, soothing and repetitive, Ether Teeth is a hypnotic, moody collection of experimental guitar wails, lush piano, eclectic sampling, and ethereal, hissing blank space.
Bursting forth from the collage-driven DJ tradition (Prince Paul to Kid Koala), Fog is obviously well-versed in the process of snatching and reusing, infusing his tracks with occasionally ironic spots of found sound. The general problem with found stuff-- be it a Diana Ross backbeat or a canary-- is that the act of recognition is not an especially artful endeavor in and of itself. Recontextualization is hip-hop's founding principle, but it's a tenet based on the idea that sampling should involve skillful arranging and sequencing, not straight up cutting and pasting. Appropriation and transplanting requires ingenious tweaking in order to deserve a stamp of reinvention; to become the painting-- not just the wall it's hanging on.
Fog, fortunately, realizes this-- his snagged material, which can consist of anything from film dialogue, to conversations, to fragments of old songs, to birds, birds, birds-- are placed over alarmingly beautiful, droning guitar chords and splatters of piano. Despite a couple of rough spots, Ether Teeth is largely composed of sublime moments in which the sound becomes part of the song, complimenting the melodies and functioning cohesively rather than extraneously. "Plum Dumb" is a heart-stopping, expertly assembled opener that layers rich guitar plucking over a Casio-looped classical drone and buzzing, almost-human turntable slips. A creepy choral refrain of "which nobody can deny!" eases in like a second melody; soon, a meandering piano line snakes through, building to a thunderous, overwhelming climax before easing back out and ending on a breathtaking choral sample, now louder, stranger, and throatier.
The foot-stomping "What a Day Day" is more straightforward: snarky, sarcastic and fueled by aggressive acoustic guitar, Fog's charmingly haphazard singing finds a contextual home here. After an unpredictable two minutes, it bursts into a chorus on par with the best melodramatic piano ballads from the 70s: "If you need me, call my lawyer." Another archaic vocal sample pops up at the end, warning everyone to "get out of Terrible Town" and "go on to Lovelyville."
"The Girl from the Gum Commercial" opens with some nicely obnoxious open-mouthed gum mauling; these smacks sound oddly percussive against a rudimentary piano melody and quiet guitar strums, like sticky, high-pitched drums. Fog's voice sneaks around the tune, sometimes loud, sometimes inaudible, but the track vehemently refuses to follow any sort of logical, linear path. It's a dynamic trick: if you've got the patience to stick it out for five minutes, the alarming turntable debauchery halfway through should substantiate the investment for most.
It's the winning (if anything-but-cheery) "Cheerupcheerily" where Fog's isolated misery is most dramatically defined. As an ambient swell-- almost certainly snatched from a U2 track, and quite possibly the instrumental "Korova 1"-- loops repeatedly, the song gradually builds into a clarinet-dotted wail of distortion so focused and thin, it threatens to tear a hole through your line of sight. Like cinema's recent Americana melodramas, it's a meditation on ache and desire that's at once aware of its insignificance in the scope of things.
Ether Teeth sags briefly midway through-- "No Boys Allowed" and "Apologizing to Mystery" are both half-conceived-- but immediately after, the 11-minute "Wallpaper Sink or Swim" seems a clear and devestating revelation. After five minutes of its barely-there piano and jutting left-channel samples, a thundering melody harkens a new beginning, killing itself on an odd chord before rising again as a dramatic, ascending progression. Hushed jazz drums begin to stutter and fall all over the track as horns, tones and samples wander around Fog's constant chant, "Goats will eat tins cans," an apparently meaningless repetition that has a surprising function: the lyric is the grounding melody around which an orchestra of instruments circle, a moment in which hip-hop's tradition of juxtaposition meets music theory.
Fog lays down some skillful, ambitious, and certainly curious foundations on Ether Teeth, but his coloring book isn't completely filled in. But that he's made such a tremendous leap from his amateurish if promising debut to this highly developed, emotionally attenuated sound manipulation speaks to his future. For its sometimes uneven composition, Ether Teeth brings reality closer to your ears than most music ever hope, melding folk, hip-hop and psychedelia to produce a few of the finest tunes you'll hear this year. Surprisingly personal and emotionally resonant, Ether Teeth is potent inspiration, undeniably captivating in its moments of brilliance.
