although i'm aware that the era of this artist's richly deserved hype has long since come and gone, their position as monarch of the underground having been supplanted by the more fair of countenance and dulcet of demeanor, the fact remains that i actually touched it.
as i stood transfixed in the front row, a sweating sycophant in scarlet, it fell upon me from above like so much fleshy fire from the sky.
in case you're not privileged enough to have shared the experience, cupping the ass of peaches is something of a religious experience for non-believers. i'll present this comparison in easy-to-understand SAT format:
Q. touching the hand of the pope is to touching peaches' trunk as:
A. touching the shroud of turin is to fondling the first belted car coat by hedi slimane for dior.
not unlike jiggly twin water balloons, the globes that comprise peaches' groove thang were only made more attractive when, after crowdsurfing and jumping back on stage, the artist formerly known as merrill nisker tossed her head back and shook her moneymaker before lurching forward and vomiting fake blood all over her exposed breasts and hotpants.
chicks on speed were pretty good too.
man, four days later and i'm still thinking triple XXX if you catch my drift- now that's what i call artistry. WIT, you bitches could learn a lot.