The Astoria, London
18 April 2004
First up, Pink Grease. I’ve been holding off on reviewing these buggers until I could manage the supreme effort of will that is not being so drunk while watching them that I couldn’t tell whether they were wonderful, or really shit. Happily, I can tell you it’s the former, although they are very, very silly indeed. They look fantastic, like they’re out of a cartoon, or like they should be the backing band in Mike Allred‘s classic comic Red Rocket 7. There’s a guy who looks like one of the Hair Bear Bunch on bass who handles most of the audience interaction, a guy with a really clunky wood-burning analogue soundrack which he twiddles with intently like a mad scientist, and a guy who looks like Bruce Foxton by way of Dexy’s Midnight Runners on sax. And that’s just some of the fuckers! The lead singer puts me in mind of Ewan McGregor‘s Iggy-a-like in Velvet Goldmine– all glowery and blonde, pulling a scarf round the back of his neck like Roxy-era Bryan Ferry.
Musically, it’s all very in-yer-face Glam stomping, with current single “Fever” coming on like The Cramps‘ “Human Fly” after necking a couple of pills (yup, two paragraphs in and the lazy “like someone else? BUT ON DIFFERENT DRUGS!!!” similes are creeping in? BAD emu), all “sh’mon, sugar” and “baybeh!” Much posing takes place, and a good time is had by all. Oh, and I bet they could kick the shit out of The Darkness in a fight as well.
Speaking of “had by all”, Peaches‘ uberslut persona has also made a transition into the world of glam. Blondely bewigged and posing motionless with a guitar, she takes the stage to a full-on stompathon, every now and then pinwheeling a massive chord: kind of like a sleazier Brain Donor. Finally the wig comes off, and we’re hurled into the Peaches live experience. You know the deal- filthy raps over minimalist Hip-hop, Amazonian dancers with huge strap-ons (“Shake Yer Dix”) or wrapping the woman a friend of mine refers to as “that Canadian arse-teacher” in tape (“Operate”). It’s all gloriously sleazy fun, with Peaches herself coming across as some post-porn stadium pop diva, like Janet Jackson as reimagined by Bob Guccione, pausing briefly mid-song to ask a punter “Is that a real beard? That’s fucking awesome!”
The only part that felt a bit? well, limp? was when she got a couple of audience members up on stage to do vocals for “Fuck The Pain Away”, and it transpired they didn’t actually know the song very well. But that was more than made up for by “Rip It Up”, for which she was joined by a life-sized video screen of Iggy Pop himself, during which they danced, flirted and generally mocked each other’s back catalogues (oo-er missus!) both convincingly and bloody funnily. AND THEY WERE SELLING MERKINS AT THE MERCHANDISE STALL!!! Truly, a splendid gig.
-(Deuteronemu 90210 has gone to have a cold shower)-
