Life Affirming: Thee Oh Sees

Life affirming rock ‘n roll. Boy, what a feeling. And Thee Oh Sees deliver hit after hit. It’s no secret either; you can taste it even before they take to the stage, so keen, willing and expectant are the crowd. And if it seems like a secret, where you been? This past Monday night caught alight and it was pretty wonderful.

It's also something that John Dwyer specialises in. Pink and Brown, The Hospitals, Coachwhips, Yikes... Phew. Now Thee Oh Sees, something he founded as a solo project which has turned full bodied, carrying four people and a hefty, ungodly groove.

He leads the band. Rhythm section hammering away while he rides a guitar hitched up high, sitting on his chest. Lunges around, pirouettes a little, hammers out the riffs. Drinks a bottle of beer, no hands.

As soon as they start the whole front row goes ballistic. Thee Oh Sees are that kind of good value band; you get your money’s worth, repaid in sweat, fun and swapped smiles. Fuzzed up party music for no care kids who slam into one another while the elders cram around at the middle and back, letting the tunes wash on over.

The warm reverb that coats their recordings is lost when songs are played out live. Instead replaced by a squealing, high-end buzzsaw sound that signals chaos. The band go quicker too, surf melodies that make the records so catchy broken up by a vicious rockabilly stomp. A more immediate energy.
Great watching the sheer power of rock ‘n roll too. People move totally free or stand stock still, mesmerised. The dancefloor starts as a testosterone pile up but ends with girls flinging themselves in and sailing over the tops of heads, bodies diving off the stage. Life affirming indeed. Pure enjoyment definitely. Not many do it better.

Honourable mentions go to Hank Haint and Sex Beet, young upstarts travelling along the same path toward affirmative status. They’ve got a way to go but give it a fair old whack.

One-man-band Hank leaves the stage with his heart broken and his head hung low for two reasons: his visceral, distorted blues reeks of loss and whiskey, as all good blues should, but he also suffers from a technical difficulty that cuts his set straight in two and forces him, sadly, off-stage. Undeserved and untimely. But them’s the breaks. Will catch him next time round.

Sex Beet perform snotty surfy punk most likely inspired by ingesting way too many Pebbles compilations. But who’s judging anyway? The type of band capable of a solid, gold-dust seven inch and a rowdy night out in some cramped dive bar, they throw down tunes about getting high and catching girls. Cool.