Peaches' music is all sex, but it isn't sexy. Her live show is performance art that isn't artful at all. The beats are minimal and grating, but the attitude is hormonally indulgent. It's the sort of paradox that can only exist functionally in the absence of avant-garde pretenses. And to that end, Peaches is pure trashy electroclash and never pretends to be anything more.
Her Roland 505 groans as, in a uniform of neon-pink hot pants and fishnets, she molests both microphone and female crew, crotch-thrusting and crowd-surfing with equal hedonistic abandon. Peaches' distorted sound is as raw as her lyrics are raunchy; she's not so much sexy as sex-inspirational.
Peaches is androgynous and horny, to be sure, but not the object itself. As she told Spin magazine, "the [audience] doesn't want to have sex with me, necessarily — they just want to have sex ... . I see myself more as a conduit for sex. In the middle of one show, my sound guy grabbed his girlfriend and went to the bathroom to fuck."
With track titles like "Shake Yer Dix" and "Fuck the Pain Away" on the set list, it doesn't require much imagination to figure out why.
