Impeach My Bush
(XL)
Mix the rudest bits of Madonna, Goldfrapp, Pink, Lil’ Kim and Princess Superstar and — arguably — you get Peaches. A post-feminist porno-rapper, bisexual gender-bender, pubic hair fetishist and fashionista icon, the Canadian-born artist formerly known as Merrill Nisker made her reputation as the queen of Berlin’s cliquey electroclash scene. Impeach my Bush, however, brings her within sniffing distance of the pop mainstream.
It is certainly her most glossy, lush and expensive-sounding release to date. In a break from its minimalist beatbox predecessors, Peaches’ third album was recorded in a grand old-school LA studio with a gang of starry collaborators including Joan Jett and Josh Homme, plus big-name producers who have worked with Beck and Gwen Stefani.
Broadening her canvas has greatly enriched her threadbare electro-sleaze sound. From the sensual bubblewrap robofunk of Downtown, a softly cooed celebration of oral sex (naturally), to the booty-shaking liquid basslines of Tent in your Pants and Slippery D*** — no prizes for guessing their theme — there are enticing echoes here of the Neptunes or Timbaland.
Behind its seductive sonic palette, Impeach my Bush is also peppered with mildly provocative art-punk touches. The cover photo frames Peaches’ intense green eyes inside what appears to be a sequined burka veil, while the Bush-bashing opening track F*** or Kill bluntly champions erotic freedom over state-sponsored slaughter. Both these statements seem to promise some deeper commentary on sexual politics, the war in Iraq or even Islamic culture clash.
But, frustratingly, that never materialises. Instead, Peaches embarks on yet another single-minded orgy of salacious sex fantasies, licentious wordplay and groincentric grooves.
As many have noted, her risqué rhymes and lewd innuendos are neither shocking nor empowering in our hypersexualised 21st-century pornscape. Coincidentally, perhaps, the people making this point are usually male music critics, which may tell us something about pop’s ongoing gender wars.
In fact, she claims that her intention is not to shock, but she sure knows how to mock the phallocentric absurdity of rock. Take the exhilarating electro thumper Two Guys (for Every Girl), which reverses the male fantasy of a lesbian floor show, with Peaches demanding hot boy-on-boy action to satisfy the drooling female gaze. Crucially, take away the small-p political point and this is still a witty, catchy, fruity little pop ditty.
Sadly, ideas run dry in the album’s latter stages, especially when Peaches swaps electro-smut for loud guitars. The blamming powerpop anthem You Love it lacks bite, despite a cameo by the pop-metal legend Joan Jett. A further clutch of bluesy garage rockers aspire to White Stripes rawness, but feel sketchy and throwaway.
Beyond three or four brilliant tracks, much of Impeach my Bush paints Peaches into a familiar narrow corner. At best she is funny, inventive and gloriously filthy. But her relentless obsession with sex begins to grate across an entire album: wham, bam, no thank you ma’am. You find yourself yearning for a sweet ballad about the joys of celibacy. Now that really would be shocking.
