Fog's self-titled 2002 debut sounded a promising call for kids who grew up with turntables, acoustic guitars, and no puritanical allegiances to one or the other. Choosing sides might still be a point of pride for old holdovers, but rootsy proscriptions prove even less appealing than usual when applied to Fog's woozy, wizened mix of vinyl-swipe noise and indie-folk moods. The first album worked a little better in theory than in practice, but its high points, as well as Fog's mesmerizing junk-shop-electronic live shows, hinted at a reconciled dualism that holds out its own rewards. The new Ether Teeth is a disappointment, though, for favoring aimless wandering over nomadic purpose. Fog leader Andrew Broder is a singular soundsmith and a clever songwriter, but too much of Ether Teeth sounds like in-between patter for ideas that rarely coalesce. "Plum Dumb" opens with a stirring swath of smeary DJ swirl and plaintive guitar pluck, before "What A Day Day" charges into spin-back beats and homey vocals that emote through droll lines like "If you need me, call my lawyer." The album slinks through some intriguing moodscapes, laying naturalistic spots of banjo and piano against crackling atmospheres and chiming sine waves. But Broder's lo-fi recording method mistakes murkiness for mystery, draping prime movements in obfuscating hiss. Certain moments soar–the mini-symphony "Under A Anvil Tree," the haunted vocal round in "No Boys Allowed," the gorgeous piano playing in "I Call This Song Old Tyme Dudes"–but finding Ether Teeth's moments of clarity requires wading through lots of meaningless mess. Broder is still promising, but he'd do well to learn that not all silence is pregnant silence, and that negative space doesn't take shape on its own.