It’s no secret that UT’s very own radio station, WUTT, has vamped up its programming. What remains unknown, however, is a secret vault of sorts buried deep within the WUTT studios. I have been in the booth on many occasions assisting and listening to one of WUTT’s shows, the Hump-day Heroes. Many listeners don’t realize that a treasure trove of abandoned vinyls and advanced copy CDs grace the decrepit shelves behind the DJs’ seats.
Without knowing the whose hands last touched these dusty disks, I decided it was time to uncover the hidden gems or garbage beneath. I found myself with armfuls of CDs whose covers intrigued me. It was as if I had opened a time capsule and let all the bad 90s rock, obscure poetesses and no-hit-wonders tumble out. After sorting through each shelf labeled ambiguously “Metal,” “Reggae,” “Rock,” “Pop” and even “International,” I knew I couldn’t keep all this untouched music to myself.
I have decided to share with you all one out of the many albums that I found that fateful night. It is the holy grail of the unheard of. I give you: Pretzel Sex.
Before you get too weirded out, let me explain what this CD looks like and why I couldn’t let it continue living its obscure existence. Atop a purple background, Buzz Poets is blocked out in blue letters. This band is comprised of five men, much like the Backstreet Boys or N’Sync. Judging by the quality of the artwork (computerized images that are stretched and horrifically resemble a four-year-old’s best attempt at Microsoft Paint), I would say this CD fits right into the dot-com era of the world wide web. You’ve got it: we’ve been transported to and might even party like it’s 1999.
Pretzel Sex opens with an introduction named “Jazziz.” The intro sums majority of the next forty minutes of my listening experience: “This is probably the most challenging record you have ever put on your turntable/I’m sure there is going to be more than one unpleasant surprise before we’re done.” After the automated voice, it spirals out into a strange mix of hip hop beats and audio feedback.
The Buzz Poets then launch right into the second song, “Rollercoaster Ride.” Again, a very telling title, though terribly cliché. It first sounds like some sort of house music and rapping vocals are so buried underneath beeping, booping and drums that it’s hard to tell what they’re saying. Then, out of nowhere, a metal guitar comes raging in for what I presumed was the bridge and chorus.
The voices stop rapping and begins warbling and singing in screamo fashion. I’m not really sure what’s going on even when I check the lyrics in the book: “We polar bears/we be swinging from the vine jump right up/hi Yogi Bear/comin’ over there for la la Satan ridin’ on a white horse/the source of remorse is the coke horse of course.” It’s like Lewis Carroll, except not at all clever, and the stoner-ness is completely forced.
I’m chomping at the bit for the next song, “Barbie Q,” which I can only hope will continue this nonsensical journey into undefined genre. What I find instead is a Smash Mouth-y rock song instead of weirdo rap. In fact, it’s a parody of the Beach Boys’ “Barbara Ann.” It’s about a girl called Betty Sue who is instructed to burn her barbies in a giant barbecue. Excellent.
Now that I’m sufficiently confused, I can’t help but keep listening. The giant genre leaps are simultaneously befuddling, terrible and mesmerizing. I am not disappointed when “Clone” comes on next, mimicking smooth jazz and R&B. Clearly, this is an album for the schizophrenic in all of us. The lyrics actually surprise me with their almost talent: “Egotistical magical mystical typical prison filled with jissom so I scream but I can’t get you to listen to me beautiful freak with the titillating tongue you got bitten by the love bug.” I look up jissom out of curiosity and regret doing so almost immediately. If you’re wondering, it’s exactly what it sounds like.
I skip through “Twisted” (a happy-go-lucky song about love that keeps an upbeat, ska sensibility) and “China on a Sunday” (another upbeat rock song about a girl named China who sleeps and runs all Sunday. There’s also an “asian waterfall” which I won’t even comment on after being scarred by jissom). Finally, I get to the title song, “Pretzel Sex.”
Their title track is straight up heavy rock with clanging guitars and explicit lyrics. Perfect for the perverted fans I assume would salivate at Buzz Poets’ mis-mastery of words. It comes complete with moaning girls and a sped-up breakdown at the end, constantly repeating that they will “twist her like a pretzel/teach her how to wrestle.”
Following that sorry excuse for music is “Copenhagen Girl” in which the Buzz Poets express their yearning for a girl who chews tobacco. “Milkyway” is unintelligible for the most part, “One More Dance” is a 70s disco and reggae festival all in one, and “Candy Raindrops” is a random piano ballad that would make an emo girl’s diary laugh. Strangely enough, “Hello” is actually the goodbye song on the album, ending this ear-opening listening sesh.
Journeying into the enigma of a college radio library has opened a can of worms. If this is what the vault hath produced, who knows what else lies silent within this stack of albums I’ve discovered. Could anything top this 90s disaster of random word association and genre-bending noise? Buzz Poets, you may not have lived to see any MTV fame, but you have certainly opened a door to the unknown. Remember to protect yourself. Don’t indulge your iTunes in any Pretzel Sex.
Amanda Sieradzki can be reached at asieradzki@spartans.ut.edu