Peaches Show Collects Misfits

Phoenix Concert Theatre

Toronto, ON

on May 20 2009

Evan Dickson (CHARTattack)

05/21/2009 4:10pm

It was the first bona fide hot day of the season for Toronto — a powerful omen for our ex-pat bisexual cock rocker to bring home the sweat show.

What a crowd Peaches draws in this town: Ravers smoking at the gate, grannies and grampies at the door (her parents, maybe?), lesbians and indie rock dudes rubbing plaid shoulders under the disco ball. If Toronto is multicultural, Peaches is multisubcultural.

All these weirdoes were surprisingly stiff early on. Opener Drums Of Death worked like a bastard to make people move to his heavy laptop beats and digital sirens. It must be hard to build up a dance party at 8:30 p.m. on a weeknight. All the real clubbers are just getting their Wednesday brunch at Burrito Boyz.

Even a full-on James Brown-style shriek while falling to his knees only generated minor friction. DOD was reduced to shouting "Torontooo!" over and over to build hype. It was a shame, really. A Friday or Saturday night with that guy could be insane.

It turned out the audience didn't need warming up. Everybody was just saving their energy for the main event. The screams started as the three-piece band took the stage during The A-Team theme song.

Everybody went off like an alarm when Peaches — wearing a pink, puffy peach shirt and black mask — struck a Christ pose on top of an amp. Just three songs later, she was already crowd-surfing, posed like she was lounging atop a grand piano.

The last time I saw Peaches was at The Rivoli when she first made her T.O. comeback with 2000's The Teaches Of Peaches. That small club show consisted of a beatbox, dirty rhymes and a theatrical performance involving nearly nude dancers and amateur super 8 films.

Nearly a decade later, the Peaches formula holds true to its roots. Even with a band, the raw beats with sparse, grinding synthesizers and guitar echo the minimal style of her early work. The stage show has become more polished and extravagant.

To give you some idea, here's a list of Peaches' costume changes:

1. Puffy pink peach and gimp mask.
2. Black and white renaissance harlequin suit.
3. Glittering silver leotard with arm tassels and hood.
4. Bathrobe and towel.
5. White body suit with white wings that doubled as projection screens.
6. Black leotard with a graphic of a large hand pointing to the crotch.
7. Gold unitard with gold rope necklace.
8. Pink leotard with black "XXX" cape and strobe light crotch. ("Look at the centre of the peach.")
9. Black dress covered with long brown tassels.

Irony and electroclash go together like Red Bull and after-parties, but ironic isn't the right word to describe Peaches' performance. It's not a wink or a put-on.

Merrill Nisker (a.k.a. Peaches) just isn't supposed to be doing the things she does. The 40-year-old Jew from Toronto shouldn't be rapping about dicks and tits, rocking out like Steven Tyler, or crooning like a disco diva. She looks strange even as she flawlessly sells her attitude.

That dissonance is what gives Peaches both her camp humour and political edge. It's what makes the show unique. Of course, somebody else in the crowd probably said that already in their master's thesis.