Peaches Teaches Hipsters to get Naked

The metal-head, the hip hop aficionado, the techno roller, the indie kid, the foreign guy and I embarked on a journey of lude exploitation Wednesday night. Not that we partook, but when Peaches is on the menu, anything is bound to happen.

I borrowed the metal-head’s green tights and decided to throw on my trusty cowboy boots for the evening. But at Peaches concert it seemed appropriate. Our tiny house was littered with hipster paraphernalia. The iPod was blasting beats of what we were about to see. We adorned Sharpie mustaches on our index fingers just to make sure that we went the extra mile. Not to deny my love for vintage boots and scarves worn around the head, but going over the top was the credo for the evening.

We rolled up to The Rialto waiting with baited breathes for what lied in store for the young Tucson crowd of six. There it was: the Mecca of hipsterdom. Fans young and old stood in line cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, shivering from the cold just so they could  wear spandex leggings and some form of bathing suit. However, I was one of them tonight and I would have to suffer the 40 degree weather just like the rest of them.

Luckily, I am a smoker.

But once inside, the bright costumes and fiery atmosphere made up for my lack of appropriate clothing. Club Congress migrated to the other side of the street tonight; it was like the whose who of the downtown Tucson scene.

Our foreign friend decided to kick it up a notch and insisted on downing an entire glass of Vodka purchased from the Rialto’s bar. After the two seconds it took him to finish it he looks up and explains: “What? I’m Russian.”

Seems like he wasn’t the only one intent on letting loose. When Peaches herself came out on stage she poured Champagne all over the audience before diving into the crowd. The sea of people sweating and dancing, carried the scantily clad Peaches above their heads.

But it wasn’t the shaved sideburns, bright pink eye-shadow or even the nude bodysuit that seemed a little strange. It was the giant head-dress she chose to enter in at the top of the show. Looking like a lions mane on steroids, the half dreadlocked head piece encompassed most of the singers body. The metal-head turned to me and said, “She looks like the vultures from the Dark Crystal”.

I guess Peaches always has a way of surprising us. She does have songs entitled “Two Guys (for Every Girl)” and “I Feel Cream”.

Then she proceeded to change after every song, which usually meant taking off another item of clothing. I suppose she got bored with being the only one stripping on stage, so she demanded that we all follow suit and take our own shirts off.

I immediately turned to the metal-head and said: “I’ll take my shirt off if you take yours off.” She confirmed that we had to give into the urge, and we pulled off our cardigans and V-necks and danced like fools in our bras.

I suppose you only live once.

But Peaches also kept us on our toes when it came to her set. After numerous encores, each lasting  two songs, she finally waved farewell to Tucson.

The techno roller, who had been in the heat of the action throughout the concert, ran back to us gasping for air ecstatic that she got to hold Peaches for in her words: “a whole five minutes!”

As we lunged towards the entrance doors we were immediately spit back out into the cold night air (which by this time had gotten colder). The hip hop aficionado pulled out his pack of filtered Lucky Strikes and offered them up to the group.

There we were, the faces of Peaches fans. In the dim Rialto light you could make out the now sweaty crowd. Some made their way into the now busy Club Congress, but as for me, I was done adorning my hipster self for the evening.

I think the indie kid was right when explaining his motives for attending the concert that night.

“The Yankees lost, the Suns are loosing,” he said. “In the words of Peaches there is only one thing left to do: Fuck the Pain Away.”