Live Review: Peaches, Monster Zoku Onsomb, MKO

As the crowd is filing into the venue formerly known as The Hi-Fi, packing out the dancefloor and mezzanine level, MKO are warming the crowd up. They really don’t need much help getting jazzed for what’s coming, but the performer’s set gets everybody loosened up for the onslaught to come.

Monster Zoku Onsomb sound more like a Rob Zombie movie than a Rob Zombie album. And that’s a good thing, because there haven’t been enough deep-space anything-goes retro-kitsch sets in Brisbane since Darth Vegas left.

As the curtains open to Peaches looming above the stage, wearing a cape that looks like something straight out of Flash Gordon, the crowd goes pretty well batshit insane. She might not be playing the Entertainment Centre or have a cavalcade of back-up dancers, but you feel like you’re in the company/presence of a true pop icon tonight. Perhaps that’s the secret to Peaches’ enduring appeal; she can adeptly transform the arena pop show into a sweaty punk rock club show. There are the dancers and the wardrobe changes but the dancers are dressed as giant vaginas and Peaches is changing outfits in the middle of her set. While she’s lying across the turntable riser struggling to take off one flesh-coloured leotard, a dancer holds the mic to her face so she can hit the chorus of Lovertits. It’s also worth noting that few other DJs could kill it on the decks while they’re squatting over their turntables in a swimsuit involved in a tableau of simulated anilingus.

But beyond the spectacle of the performance, Peaches’ tunes are all on point tonight. From the polished pop of Talk To Me to the gritty electroclash of AA XXX, the woman born Merrill Nisker adroitly softens or hardens her sneer to match the thumping backbeat playing over the P.A. It doesn’t matter if she’s offering up punk rock or glittery pop, the pit is vigorously gyrating to whatever Peaches throws at them. Even when the visual spectacle threatens to detract from the music – a man does set the underpants he’s wearing on fire, after all – the crowd doesn’t stop moving up the front. The only pause in the fun comes when Peaches stops logical closer, Fuck The Pain Away, to sell her merch. It’s a quirky idea, and those buying the T-shirts seem pleased when the singer starts wiping their new garments on her sweaty vagina, but it drags out too long and people start leaving. It’s a weeknight after all, and it puts a dampener on the last song. Though it’s not the best way to end a show, the pervasive elation can still be felt as the crowd files out onto the street.