When The Teaches of Peaches arrived in 2000, it was the perfect soundtrack for the gender-shifting millennium. Silly, sexy, and defiant, it gave us "Fuck the Pain Away" — that unapologetic ear worm that was so overdue in the canon of rock 'n' roll, it felt more like a meme. It made us want to go to Berlin, where people were honest and hilarious. Instead, we saw Peaches live. She was honest and hilarious. Marketed as electroclash, this creature of pure id clearly belongs in the high echelon of performance artists, not in record bins with Ladytron. Music is like an enfleurage which merely traps her scent. What Else Is in the Teaches of Peaches, a new book of photography, attempts to capture more: Peaches onstage, backstage, in her 30-boob breastplate, on the crapper, on a cross, passed out, convalescing, performing for Yoko Ono, curled up with family, recording with Iggy Pop. It's a groupie's delight. But it can't convey the experience of Peaches. Thankfully, she will be on hand, joined by everyone's favorite sexologist, Annie Sprinkle.
Peaches appears at 7 p.m. at City Lights, 261 Columbus Ave., S.F. Free; 415-362-8193 or citylights.com.
415-362-8193
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