The filth and the fury

Peaches, Justice bring it HARD to Los Angeles on New Year’s Eve

By Melissa Bobbitt
Published: January 2nd, 2008 | 8:49pm

Dec. 31, 2007, in Los Angeles — With a sexually suggestive name and a location usually littered with homelessness and filth, HARD New Years Eve Music Festival was probably the nastiest, most delightfully depraved welcoming of 2008 on this side of Ibiza. Tucked away in the back alleys of Los Angeles’ abandoned toy factory district, the uber-hyped, undersold event boasted quite the debauched lineup: the electroclash provocateur Peaches, randy rump hunters 2 Live Crew, and one DJ Pubes. Overly sensitive scene kids needed not RSVP.

Appropriately positioned near a parade of Porta Potties, the Hydraulic Stage bounced and reverberated with nostalgic raunchiness. Mr. Mixx and his 2 Live minions paid homage to females like only they could, with each subjectively derogatory verse further rousing revelers. The slinky, wasted crowd partied like it was 1989 as the Crew churned up old standbys like "Me So Horny." Remarkably, these booty-obsessed novelty songs never felt musty. At HARD, cheeky allusions to genitalia is always en vogue.

Headliners Justice provided the squeakiest of clean fun just after midnight, its set mired only by the mere presence of MySpace marauder Cory Kennedy. (Coupled with her aloof flailing, DJ Steve Aoki’s drunken scaling of the rafters during the French duo’s set possibly made the coke-addled audience feel even dirtier.) Despite some audio short-outs, Justice dished out a delectable mix of its hits (a skuzzier version of “D.A.N.C.E.”) and instrumental aphrodisiacs, all while perched atop an illuminated cross.

But akin to frantic intercourse, the foreplay was just more satisfying. The perverse Peaches, decked out in golden roller-disco garb, got the chilly crowd all riled up prior to the New Year’s countdown. Like a Joan Jett for the Vivid set, she gyrated her way into the audience’s heart. She implored the crowd for a puff of the potent pot that was wafting in the balmy air, eliciting cheers. (Alas, the tokers didn't share with her.) A punk rock burlesque show unfolded as she powered through the saucy anthem “Fuck the Pain Away,” which throbbed on right through the stroke of 12.

A glutton for listener interaction, the artist legally known as Merrill Beth Nisker led a droning chant of "fuck the year away" as more and more ostentatious attendees swarmed the stage. A groundswell of self-importance and impudence bubbled up, the perfect confection to wash down another torrid 365 days. The champagne (and maybe a few unmentionables) popped, and HARD turned into a snogging fest. It undoubtedly was the best way to enter a new year — doused in decadence.