It is a dark and stormy night – an appropriate beginning for an evening of storytelling; the reason this small but dedicated coterie has cause to gather upstairs in Auntie Annie’s.

We are a wet and somewhat miserable bunch, but sharply dressed local troubadour John D’Arcy appears onstage to alleviate our woe. The Great Bunch of Lads line up have the night off, so D’Arcy comes into his own with the more fragile offerings in this solo acoustic set, ‘Eyes On Her’ and ‘More Like Me’. These tender ballads showcase a natural affinity for capturing matters of the heart with clarity, wit and conviction; it’s what the Buddy Holly Doppelgänger does best and we’d like some more of it, please.

Infectiously enthusiastic Derry-based foursome The Wonder Villains follow, and thy are a tight group indeed. ‘Calgary’ and ‘Peter’ mainline a large dose of sugar-sweet adrenaline whilst ‘Running In Circles’ has a rousing power chorus that Paramore et al would be proud to call their own. Bouncing offstage clutching their school folders (I kid you not), I resist the urge to put them in my pocket for safekeeping.

This bright eyed youth and positivity, however, seem incongruous given the reason we have battled the cruel weather to be here; to witness the laying to rest of Owen Ashworth’s Casiotone For The Painfully Alone moniker. Bearded and in a red flannel shirt and thick glasses, Ashworth cuts a solitary figure amidst a tangle of equipment onstage. Barely raising his head, a showman he is not. But that is part of the appeal. Alas, his vocal delivery live is hard to decipher against the austere beats-and-keys sound. Nonetheless, we are lulled into his land of musical story telling.

Take the self-piteous wrist-cutters in ‘Young Shields’ – “We drink too much / And fuck too soon” or the dashed hope of ‘New Year’s Kiss’ – “Woke up with fingers crossed / In a boy’s bed with your pants off”. Far from drowning in vitriol, Ashworth simply relays the stark reality. A background of repetitive lo-fi beats and predictable chord patterns only serve to reinforce his words. I read the facial expressions of the crowd against the flicker of tea lights and it betrays the importance of this music to many. It’s a beautifully intimate atmosphere to hear a grown man spill his heart out for the last time in Belfast.

The set draws to a close and a voice asks why he’s giving the alias up. “It’s been 13 years of writing the same bummer!” he sighs. The crowd laughs but we’re laughing with him. This “bummer” has helped many from feeling not so painfully alone at many times of their lives, and for that, Owen Ashworth will be sorely missed. Claire Leonard