Come On Taste the Peaches

If you've been reading this blog for a (very) long time, you may remember the near-trauma I sustained at my first rock concert a little more than a year ago. My stamina has improved since then, but I was still nervous about a full night of Peaches, particularly when I learned she was to be preceded by an act that calls itself "The Eagles of Death Metal."

This is not a music snob's confessional. I like what I like, but I do truly believe that to avoid ruts a person needs to venture into unexplored territory on a regular basis. I was more afraid of being a fish out of water, the same issue that bedeviled me before the Intonation Festival and Lollapalooza.

Happily, when I showed up at the Old Vic my fears evaporated. I found a mostly female crowd in various states of undress, behaving wantonly and giving hearty voice to their innermost perverse desires. Pretty much the same as a Yarn Harlot book signing. And so I relaxed.

C and I had the pleasure of the company of our friend Derek, who is not only a jovial companion but also notably tall. Extremely useful in a general admission setting, as people get out of his way and he manages to wiggle up close to the action. Sure enough, when C and I made it into the house he had secured prime standing room within sweat-flinging distance of the stage.

The opening act, the aforementioned Eagles of Death Metal, were just precious. They are fronted (I believe this is the term) by a man who looks something like a cross between Floyd Pepper (the Muppet) and a 70s gay porn star. He is entirely too sexy for his own good and the only man I've ever seen who can carry off a walrus moustache. If he is reading this, he should drop me a note.*

I'm not entirely clear on what "Death Metal" is, but these energetic fellows played what sounded to me like fairly straightforward loud loud loud jump around the stage and shake your tightly clad tush rock and roll. In particular, I enjoyed a sprightly chanson called "Whorehoppin (Shit, Goddamn)" which is of course a setting of the verses by Goethe.

It didn't take long for me to forget my initial awkwardness and just give myself over to the impulse to shimmy, though I did have to ask C whether it was appropriate to applaud between movements.

After a brief intermission, the house lights went down and suddenly there was Peaches, dressed like Xena the Warrior Princess after she stopped killing bad guys and became a pole dancer in a downscale titty bar, standing on top of the uppermost stage right box.

She sang...I dont' know what it was exactly...I think it was an ode to her crotch.** And then things got a little raunchy.

No, that's unfair. Truly, there wasn't much going on that you wouldn't have seen at a Patti Page concert, except for perhaps:

• the buxom transvestite dressed as Mrs. Incredible
• the stagehands performing CPR on the giant inflatable penis
• the female back-up dancers sporting strap-ons

and of course the anthem "Two Guys for Every Girl," in which Peaches suggests that it's jolly good fun for a girl to bring two guys home with her and then make them do naughty things to each other.

Who am I to argue with that?

Mustn't forget that she also sang an entire song riding round and round the stage on a pink bicycle. I will never look at a banana seat quite the same way again.

I couldn't bring my camera, alas, but C did make this photograph of the primadonna in full cry with his cell phone.



She appears to be bursting into flames. Apt. By the end of the evening, I rather felt that I had, too. In the nicest possible way.

To use the appropriate parlance, the event was both "phat" and "stoopid." Peace out yo, and don't forget to rock the shocker.

*Mr Rock Star, sir, C says it's okay if we fool around as long as I take pictures.

** Peaches is fond of her crotch, which was frequently spotlit during the performance. She treats it almost as a valued co-star or collaborator. The Gilbert to her Sullivan, if you will.