distillers. peaches

11 02 2004

London Brixton Academy 11.02.04

So it’s the fifty-forth century and they’re holding auditions for the movie version of Jesus Christ Stadium Rock Star, and mick jagger, joan jett and alec empire are scrapping it out for the lead, when harmony korine and tracy emin storm the director’s chair and install iggy pop as musical commissar and suddenly Peaches is in fatherfucking charge y’all! Maybe in the cavernous Brixton Academy her electrodiscopunk rumblings show up a bit weak, but fucking hell this girl is a star like Bethlehem, whether gyrating against a backdrop of Paris and Nicole (possibly not really them) in beards and penises (possibly not real either), and when she (ahem) straps on a guitar it’s fuzzed up garage rock noise rockrockrocket from Berlin to NYC to eightythree (fiftythreeeightythree).

Then while no-ones looking a rival production – Derek Jarman’s big screen version of Jem and the Holograms – finds its lead when courtney love, tim armstrong and the rock rock rock’n’roll high school shag and lo, nine seconds later we’re back in Brixton watching a conception so immaculate, a punk rawk show so utterly gobsmacking they should – hey! – make a movie about it. Brody Dalle is absolutely mesmerising, so much so that even when I get a bit bored of The Distillers west coast snarling racket and wander off to the bar, when I remember what I’m watching I leg it back and spent the glorious finale deciding I’m going to write to all of my friends and tell them how much I love them. Absofuckinglutely fanfuckingtastic.

This review first appeared on uelsu.net. Cheers to Deni for sponsoring this review, by giving me her spare ticket. Deni’s best friend was called Dani. Deni later left university, unfortunately.