Osees Bring calamity and chaos to Union Transfer 

You may know them as the Osees, that is, if you only read the name on your ticket stub at Sunday night’s Union Transfer show. But hardcore fans know them as Thee Oh Sees, The Oh Sees, or sometimes just OCS—a character-bending method developed by frontman John Dwyer to fool journalists and separate themselves from their past work.

The air above Spring Garden was ripe with the smell of dying leaves and cigarette smoke that night. A crowd clad in sleeveless denim shirts speckled with band patches and studded leather jackets waited idly for the doors to open. Everyone was silent. Only a slow murmur trickled up the line—a crowd knowing to save their energy for the show.

Inside, a fan was hyping the gig: “This is the best show for October. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s psychedelic Halloween. Dwyer’s an awesome person. I don’t know if he’s possessed by the devil or something.”

A grotesque psychedelia was sprouting from the crowd. A girl’s face was painted like a clown’s. A spiked mohawk swam like a shark fin above everyone’s heads. Intensity lurked; signs of approaching chaos swarmed. 

Opener Traps PS hit the stage 20 minutes after the 8 p.m. showtime, because even though it’s in the word, it’s not very punk to be punctual.

The post-punk trio—comprising John Jeffords on vocals and guitar, Danny Miller on bass, and Miles Wintner on drums—snapped into a pounding, guitar-grinding rumble, seizing across the stage without an introduction.

“Are you ready to see the Osees,” Jeffords screamed, foaming at the mouth. The crowd exploded, rattling the stage fence. 

When the Osees first appeared, they did so with minimal performance, filtering onto the stage, making last-minute finishing touches, testing sounds, and tuning instruments.

On stage, there was frontman John Dwyer, Tim Hellman on bass, Dan Rincon and Paul Quattrone on drums, Tomas Dolas on keys, and the long-lost Brigid Dawson, a former bandmate making her return as a featured tambourine-wielding vocalist. 

They fired into the Floydian classic “Interstellar Overdrive” for a few measures, before blasting off into “I Come From the Mountain,” clucking a building bum, bum, bum, that brought us into a rapture of distorted chords and tinny garage riffs. 

Plastic cups of beer took to the skies. The floor turned into an ocean of hair whipping and heads banging. As Dwyer screamed his twittering, reverberating lyrics, I could see his spit flying over my head, dousing those in the front row.

With black, shimmering eyes, he may have been “possessed”—but not by the devil; Dwyer was possessed by his music, being pulled around the stage by a guitar that seemed to have a sinister power over him.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw what I thought was a foot. And yes, it was. Someone’s legs were up in the air as they were tossed through the crowd, igniting an onslaught of crowdsurfers.

The first two chords of “The Dream” sparked a shriek of familiarity, right before shredding the whole room apart. Everyone gushed into a mosh pit, throwing elbows and checking shoulders. The floor was erupting into madness.

Dwyer chimed in with, “Everybody still okay?” Scattered “woos” of blown-out voices affirmed. “Good,” he added.

Then “Sticky Hulks” numbed the audience with the slow, soaring ballad, where Dwyer drifted away from his guitar to work a soundboard tucked off to the side of the stage, sending electronic vibrations through the room that hushed the moshing.

When Dwyer announced they were going to play three more songs, the room begged for more—which they got when the band ended on “Block of Ice.” The normally 2-minute song became a 15-minute jam sesh that sent the crowd on a journey through a range of emotions. Some swayed with their eyes closed; others slammed their feet against the cement floor as hard as they could. 

On the last note, Dwyer thanked Philly, stating, “See you next year. Good luck out there… until next time.” 

When the lights came on, the carnage was revealed: flannel shirts ripped at the shoulders, people reduced to undershirts, now soaked through with sweat, wild, hollow eyes drained and exhausted, someone holding a bag of ice to their head. But despite this destruction, not a face in the place went without a smile.

Until next time, indeed, Dwyer. We’ll all be waiting.