Claremont Showgrounds, Perth, Australia. 4th Feburary, 2007.

A near 40 year old Canadian wearing piles of warrior-style make up thrusts a big, bright multi-colored rod into the air. She turns it the person leather-clad androgo-morph to her left who in turn follows suite with his / her rod until the four man / woman sequence is complete. Capital 80s Euro-cheese The Final Countdown pumps merrily from the speakers. It could be that they're communicating in semaphore, although the message is unclear. I think it could be "remove shirt and await further instructions". Peaches mounts the drumkit, one foot astride each of the kick drums and surveys the acrid stretch of Bogans, before banging into Rock Show with an appropriate absence of understatement.

According to Ms P in the Triple J interview I heard two days prior, we can her band to morph between Kraftwerk and Kiss configurations. I'd estimate this is about 85% Kiss. Peaches ain't the kind to be "keepin' it real". Keepin' it pantomime maybe. Much credit due; Peaches admits 3/4 of the way through that she's suffering a fever. It might partly explain why her vocals during the choruses are a shade underwhelming. The crowd is limp, the onstage robo-plegic rom-cock pop-stomp warriors deserve more than this. There's a few hardcore boppers in relentless pursuit of the groove but overall there's a distinct lack of movement. She asks who we've seen so far today and gets unintelligibellia as a response. She tries again with much the lame effect. It wouldn't be so bad if everyone was screaming out different names at the top of their diaphragms but its a quarter-arsed effort. "You guys are ridiculous", she announces, before adding with perhaps just a hint mediation "just like me". A near 40 year old Canadian woman in Gene Simmons make-up, imploring the crowd to Shake Yer Dix? Hmmm...

As the reputed leader of musical sex education, Peaches certainly knows how to pace her performance. Its late in the day, but the laden axe-grind of The Boys Wanna Be Her squeezes the maximum juices this throng is going muster. It all shudders to the predictable climax of Fuck the Pain Away, with inspired nonsensical "huh, wha, right" rapping, a mess of cymbals and one of the strongest core messages in memory. I pity the buffoons at the New Year's Party I went to who couldn't dig this. Where are you now losers? Fat, bald and pregnant I'll wager.

It's a slick act. Although to be honest I don't think she managed to beat her entrance. Another time maybe.

Transcribed by Theodore B. Zyclonski

Epilogue: the rest of the Big Day Out 2007 festival was shit, I'd try and exercise my observation comedy muscle but I'm too depressed. I'm not even going to waste my time on this atrocity exhibition. If ever see any of the BDO organisers, remind me to happily punch them in the face. As for that jibe at the Peaches crowd being limp, that applies pretty much to the entire festival audience. This town needs an enema.