The title is an eye-catcher, promising all manner of saucy-yet-savvy postfeminist fun, but be warned: Far from the liberal alien sex-prophetess of your dreams, Peaches is actually your embarrassing uncle who visits every Christmas. You chuckle at his "leg or breast" gag while dad's carving the turkey, but after four hours re-enacting his favorite "Are You Being Served" skits, time is starting to grind onward in slower and slower increments.
What keeps Peaches' militant brand of sexual politics relevant is the increasingly reactionary nature of the forces she has aligned herself against. Still, the American right's negative obsession with the rights of gays and women cannot disguise the fact that with "Impeach My Bush," Peaches remains trapped in character. Musically, it's a similar situation, as she adheres to a dated cocktail of electroclash beats and garage-rock guitars.
The real issue with "Impeach My Bush" is that with Peaches herself. Her faults and her virtues are interchangeable. The trashy simplicity of her music and the overall awfulness of her lyrics could be cited with equal validity by supporters and detractors alike. "Impeach My Bush" is really only as good or bad as the standards you set for it.