A Party at the End of the World

Rapturous applause fills the room as Orpheus warbles the final line of ‘You Should See Me In A Crown’ by Billie Eilish, as a dazed, newly-crowned Kampe stands centre-stage, dripping in bloodied opulence. Polymestor staggers forth through the audience, unphased by their presence, and is warmly greeted by one of the PEEP Hosts and their serpentine companion, who swiftly whisk him away and through the double doors leading to the PEEP Courtyard, luring him to the Troy Finale in The Square. Meanwhile, one Host remains to recite the same Gods Summoning poem (as heard in the previous loop), whilst wielding a bulky blue LED torch, all the while underscored by that familiar repetitive synth melody from the band:

“Oh! My! Gods! The Gods are here, which means that the world must be coming to an end…” announces the Host, clearing the space for their final guest act. “So, if you want to see how the world ends, follow the Gods when they leave. Will it be triumph or misery? When the Gods go, follow them and see, triumph or misery…”.

Apollo approaches and places the skull-mask at the lip of the stage, as the Host lays their beacon on it’s side, on the front-row left-hand side table, washing the mask in a small blue spotlight – it’s bejewelled face spitting sparkling refractions back out across the audience. As the twins break into their choreographed routine, black-clothed stewards begin to distribute themselves throughout the audience to less poetically, and somewhat less immersively, translate the Host’s proclamation in hushed voices, assuring patrons that they “should leave with the Gods, if they want to see the Finale”.

With a rumbling roll and crash of thunder, the Gods strike their final poses as before, only this time the music continues to play with the Host reappearing before everyone. Apollo and Artemis creep down from the stage, leering at the audience, beckoning them to follow with crooked fingers and soul-boring stares. Apollo swipes the sparkle-mask as they exit (shortcutting past the arcade to Greece), as their cohort of obedient, willing spectators are lured away by the pair of golden-dusted, Spandex-clad pied pipers. The Host reoccupying the stage, the scattered remaining audience untempted by the call of the Gods, are treated to a poppy, upbeat duet between the Host and Orpheus (now remounting the pillar they sung from previously).

A brief electronic keytar-high hat heavy instrumental bridge follows, leaving just enough time for the pair to swap places, before continuing to serenade one another from opposing sides of PEEP.

Fernus, followed by Cryo, soon break into their own respective extended solos, as the Host and Orpheus parade the stage, dancing, celebrating and vocally riffing beside one another – there is no set choreography nor speech dedicated to this, so depending on the performers, this whole section could range anywhere from giggly and friendly, to unhinged improvised (and corpsing-heavy) madness, to pure lustful filth.

The number culminates in one final cymbal crash from Cryo, as the Host clamours: “Well, Monday nights might be blue, and Wednesday nights might be wet, but the nights don’t matter here at PEEP! Now, my tongue’s feeling quite dry, so what do you say we all take a little break, grab a drink, grab a seat if you don’t have one already, and we’ll see you in two!”. With that, Big Mess by Devo chirps up as all depart the stage to briefly retire to their stage-side dressing-room, as those returning early from the conclusion of the Troy Finale (including the second PEEP Host) are ushered through into PEEP and prompted to get comfortable for what’s left to come.

A few minutes later, the first PEEP Host re-emerges and takes to the stage once more to repeat Sweet Love by Anita Baker. Typically this is performed with the same pre-song ramble as is used in the previous loop, and the contents of the performance are unchanged – the only exception being that it is not uncommon for the Host to single out one lucky audience member to serenade specifically throughout, often (if known) referencing their name in the lyrics or sitting on their lap and gazing at them longingly throughout. The second PEEP Host soon arrives on-stage to pull up a second microphone stand beside their companion, before concluding the solo by belting out the final note themselves, and after leaving a break for applause announces:

“Oh, well it hasn’t always been ‘Sweet Love’, you know? No, it always used to be just me in here. All alone…” – cue a sorrowful glance thrown to the audience, prompting a forced collective “Awww!” – “Apart from the gin, the cockroaches, and the sweet, sweet smell of regret… then in walked [PEEP HOST 1], like an Adonis in slingbacks. And then the lights turned on! Oh, I love you, [PEEP HOST 1]! And you really have become the very fabric, the very wallpaper, that we took down last week. You are my Number One.”

They scan the room for inspiration, and upon finding it, point and proclaim:

At once the quirky, funk-laced opening beat of Lucky Number One by Lene Lovich strikes up, and the pair take to the lip of the stage for a few moments of playful toe-step-side-stepping and hand holding, before the second Host quickly returns to their microphone for the first verse.

Throughout this the first Host dances alongside in what can only be described as a series of highly demonstrative, somewhat robotic, likely improvised, but always ever-horny mimes, consisting typically of predominantly enthusiastic hand-waving, finger-pointing and hip-thrusting – we would, of course, expect nothing less of such gloriously feral emcees. The Hosts soon reverse roles:

In the brief instrumental break, the pair creep towards each other with (again what can only be described as) ‘finger-nipples’ (if you know, you know) at the ready, meeting centre-stage for some brief (I’m sorry) ‘mutual nipple-twiddling’, before scooting their microphones downstage:

Barely lifting their feet off the ground, shuffling and clutching their mic-stands, they semi-circle one another and rejoin centre-stage to face one another and continue their bizarre serenade.

Giddily, the pair clasp hands and begin swinging them up and down, before breaking contact to gesture ‘peace-signs’ at one another, and promptly and enthusiastically (again, I’m sorry) ‘scissoring’ them together (often highlighted with a loud and proud “Scissoring!” from said Hosts, just to confirm any doubts). After a short interlude of some high-knee marching, the pair cross paths and swap mics for one last final refrain:

For a few brief moments, the Hosts stand contented and flattered, soaking in the glorious applause when up from the commotion a thudding, plodding repeated drumbeat arises. The overhead LED panels begin to flash sequentially in white, and as the drumming climbs in volume, the Hosts appear to know exactly what this means, yet still seem frighteningly ill-prepared. Faces pained with comically theatrical expressions of both fear and resentment, the Hosts’ bodies begin to twitch and pulse in response to the beat, as though they are falling victim to a bizarre possession. Soon the drumming develops into the opening notes of ‘In The Hall Of The Mountain King’ by Edvard Grieg, and the Hosts respond by dismounting the stage with great difficulty, their limbs seizing and gesticulating wildly, as they are drawn unwillingly into the audience and sent half-marching, half-stumbling around the circumference of PEEP, moaning and yelping in an incoherent, bumbling mess of both genuine pain mixed with masochistic sordid delight.

Passing each other on the way, they circle back round to the stage (barely managing to climb back on), as the iconic refrain picks up pace (played expertly on keytar by Fernus, highlighted by the aptly Furie-ous smashing of cymbals from Cyro). Matching the energy and speed of their maddening siren song, the Hosts begin to lose their grasp on any frayed thread of decorum, shame or sanity they clung to before, and soon descend into an uproariously manic, nonsensical, improvised, spastic explosion of physical ridiculousness – spinning, stomping, twerking and gyrating to their heart’s content (and likely, near aneurysm).

Reaching a climax of three brief drum trills, each followed by a double high-hat crash, the Hosts frantically race to hit distinctly unique, and increasingly provocative tableau’s with each cymbal strike, before finally collapsing at the final note, into a crumpled sweaty mess of sequins and spangles, mentally, physically (and at this point, basically literally) fucked – but, at least we can all be safe in the knowledge it’s the only way this sordid pair would wish to go.