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."