Words & Photos by Andy Summons

Edits by PSQ

2min read

Do you remember the mid-noughties when there were still distinct subcultures within the now pop-bleached music landscape? A time before irony became an accepted cultural currency. Pre banjo-shredding revivalist folk. Pre when Brit-Indie Rock ruled the world, and Justin Bieber and Psy didn’t exist yet. When we naively thought we were seeing the worst of American politics, and world politics hadn’t yet descended into an absurdist screenplay co-written by John Cleese, M. Night Shyamalan and Vladimir Putin. It was a pretty great time to be alive and listening to music. In the mid-noughties, Peaches had already been rocking for years and released Fatherfucker—an album for the whole family.

Maybe I’m stuck in a Spotify ‘recommended for you’ hole. Maybe all radio stations have gone to shit as much as Australia’s newspapers. Whatever may be, finding a gig that redefines what you thought was possible to experience at a music gig is becoming harder to find, and I probably wouldn’t have gone asking for an answer from a 50-something-year-old electro-rocker.

But Peaches don’t care about radio stations or Spotify, or your gender normative bullshit. Peaches just wants to rock your world, dress up as a giant vagina, probably see your tits, perform from within a giant see-through penis, and subsequently give you the best subversive spectacle of your life since watching Iraqi journalist Muntadhar al-Zaidi throw a shoe at George W. Bush.

All I hope for you is that within this lifetime you experience the joy of watching Peaches, one minute naked, the next cloaked in vulva, and the next screaming bloody-hell shrouded in a jacket made from blonde merkin extensions. If you haven’t seen Peaches live yet, seek her out and book it. Let her kick your bucket list.

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