Peaches

"Sugar and spice,isn't it nice, luring disco dollies to a life of vice..." sang Marc Almond almost a quarter of a century ago, blissfully unaware that his words wouldn't go unheeded in places as far and wide as downtown Brooklyn.

It's hard to envisage whether Motormark were even born when the electronic eighties first sprang to life, as their Casio-meets-Fender-in-a-blender noise is equal parts Bis and Atari Teenage Riot, culminating in the self-effacing 'U Luv Us' and a bastardised version of 'You Really Got Me' that even Ray Davies would be hard pressed to recognise.

Going to see Peaches is almost comparable to going on a stag night with Brian Potter and Jerry St Clair from Phoenix Nights. A visually unattractive late 30 something stalking the stage, wearing a low cut top and panties flanked by two not so exotic dancers, one who looks like Dido after being laid flat on a kitchen table and stretched with a rolling pin, the other looking frankly like Paolo Maldini in drag. Song after song follows about tits, sucking, clits, fucking...you get the picture, and yet, as tastelessly crap as it should be, WE LOVE IT!

That could be due to the slap-ridden pounding beats which reduce 15 years of Euro-rave to the local council tip and proclaim Afrika Bambaataa to be the God Almighty of electroclash.

Or it could have something to do with the fact that Peaches turns cabaret into an art form - a female (if not that feminine) Eminem for the mullet generation, and when she asks us to 'Fuck The Pain Away', every pair of hips in the building starts to gyrate as one, unknowingly simulating anal sex on the person in front of them in the process, which is something you aren't ever likely to experience at a Biffy Clyro show.