When it came to music, poor little Timmy could never do anything right. They gave him a horn; he blew in the wrong end. They gave him a guitar; he made feedback. They sat him at a piano; he opened it up and plucked at the chords. So discouraged was little Timmy by the taunts of his peers that one day, he gave up playing music altogether. Then, one sunny afternoon, he stumbled upon a record by this guy named Fog. Fog didn't necessarily play his instruments right, either.
Sure, Timmy had heard people scratching records, but he'd never heard anyone doing it like this. It was strange, almost haphazard in a way. The music fell somewhere in between Christian Marclay and Kid Koala-- more a collage of strange sounds sometimes set to guitar or bass than the rhythm-happy scratchfests that comprise most traditional DJ records. Fog seemed more interested in seeing how many strange sounds he could make with his turntables than in keeping a rhythm or showboating. And yet, there was something to the chaos that sounded totally planned, completely sculpted. Timmy was amazed to hear someone show the same utter disregard for convention his very classmates had convinced him was so wrong.
Fog became a catalyst for Timmy. He soon realized that there was no such thing as "a right way" to play an instrument, and that there were others out there who believed this, too. Soon he would discover other turntable wizards-- folks like Christian Marclay and Otomo Yoshihide-- and he grew even more awestruck. A year later, little Timmy, slightly less little and much less melancholy, found himself surrounded by strange albums, and had even taken up the turntable himself. True, Fog wasn't quite so amazing now that he'd heard all these other turntablists, but it still had its moments and he certainly couldn't deny that it played the role of catalyst in his life, or that it was-- in many ways-- responsible for his trajectory.
But enough about Timmy; let's talk about Fog (aka Andrew Broder), a young Minnesotan who grew up, in fact, only a few miles away from Pitchfork's esteemed editor. But while Schreiber was learning to pitch the fork, Broder was no doubt hiding away in a nearby suburban bedroom, destroying records, fooling around with turntables in the dark, and following the call of his muse, no matter how strange that call might have been.
As an avant-gardist, Broder's music is solid-- nothing revolutionary, perhaps, but solid. Where Broder truly shines is in his understanding of pop, and in the way he makes it fit so snugly with his more left-field musings. Take the decidedly poppy "Pneumonia," for example. The track starts out sounding like another in a long line of Neutral Milk Hotel imposters, with distorted fuzz bass, a simple acoustic guitar melody, vocals that teeter dangerously on the edge that separates grating from sensitive, and weird ghostly theremin-like noises hovering ominously in the background. But rest assured, it's only Broder and his turntable. He's also keeping the beat with a looped, gently scratched drum sample. But it's when the song reaches its instrumental interlude that Broder really shines, busting out a stunning turntable solo that sounds more like a harmonica or a guitar than a record player.
The technique he's using at this point is actually rather minimal-- using records with just one flat tone, allowing it to play on its own more often than he manipulates it. Even then, it's just a quick scratch here and there, and a pitch adjust before he allows it to play again. Still, simple is not synonymous with ineffective or unoriginal. The sound works. Indeed, it's Broder's willingness to give in to his pop sensibilities that make Fog work so well.
"Truth and Laughing Gas" opens as one of the more straightforward tracks on the album, with thrashing guitar, distorted bass, ominous synths and frenzied hip-hop scratching. But as the song progresses, the guitar falls away and the scratching grows more and more abstract, eventually giving way to an exercise in ambience. "Hitting a Wall" begins like Ween or vintage Beck, replete with heavily treated wobbly vocals, purposely sloppy guitar and well-placed scratches. But every so often, Broder's turntable takes over, as if possessed, letting the song fall by the wayside as he presents a barrage of strange noises. Ultimately, Broder allows bits and pieces of crackly old folk records to fall into the collage, and manipulates and contrasts them with feedback-laden guitar that brings us back to the song's opening. Broder restrains himself on "Glory," layering violins and little bells underneath his manipulated percussion samples as cLOUDDEAD's Dose One weaves vocal digressions in and out, nothing more than another element of the atmosphere.
If the poppy aspects of some of Fog's songs end up alienating some stuck-up, by-the-book avant-gardists, then so be it. Because it's Broder's careful balancing act between the traditional and the abnormal that makes his music so interesting. And if anything, the album's more traditional moments will serve as a jump-on point for those who'd never think to check out something like "experimental turntablism." It's here that Broder will succeed where many of his brethren fail-- not only is he creating innovative music; he's making an effort to expand its audience as well.
