An ominous black cloud – huge and bulging, and about to burst – hangs over the DiS office this morning. It’s like the heavens themselves know what’s passed: a great band that could’ve been but never was ended their days last night, rocking out one last time before a sweaty mob of well-wishers desperate for the four men of Optimist Club to reach the zenith of their set and announce: “Just kidding, kids. We know we’re too good to quit this shit.”

The four-piece are/were like so many other punk-rockers on paper: drums, guitars (two, sometimes) and bass; a bit of singing and a bit of shouting; energy to burn. But when the composite elements essential in any band of their ilk come together, the fiery result blazes across the stage with a fury and commitment unlike any other domestic act purveying punk-rock wares for a shell-shocked audience. Optimist Club always outshone whoever they played with; they regularly knocked headliners into touch. They truly could have mattered to more than the hundred-or-so in attendance for their swansong. They should have mattered to a nation, not just a discerning underbelly full of knowledgeable capital city rockers.

The party starts with a flourish of feedback-saturated instrumental noise before lead Clubber Bryn – vocalist and occasional second six-stringer – dispenses with his cumbersome plaything and lets loose a rage that comes frighteningly naturally. Through ‘Panic Button’ we tumble – “I wanna drive over, right over, get in the car” screamed right back by those with lyrics burned into their synapses – before smashing against the sheer face that is ‘Hitchcock Blonde’. Bryn guides us through the sole line, so that we, too, may erupt ‘til our throats are shredded. “Glorification of… the… chosen… victim!” We all collapse – not literally, physically, but absolutely emotionally. Time’s ticking, almost up.

Guitarist Jeion pauses for a second, and then another: “I almost cried then,” he confesses, and the honesty is palpable. As the band’s ultimate parting shot, ‘Rotation’, is announced, all before this band that so many have loved through their many ups and downs breath in for one last expression of adoration for an unknown that, with a couple more lucky breaks and fewer blindsiding blows, should have torn through the UK’s underground and into the mainstream just like Foals and Gallows have. Complex but instantly catchy, Optimist Club bow out with heads held high, on their own terms and with memories enough to keep those that follow in their wake upping their game until it touches what this OC managed with such little fanfare.

Bryn is masked in sweat. DiS plants a kiss on his face anyway, the salty tingle on the tip of our tongue a train-ride-home echo of the bittersweet nature of a business that so often overlooks its favourite sons to be. See you, Optimist Club. It was fun. Fun like dipping sticky fingers into mains sockets. And laughing along with the jolts and jitters.

Photograph by Francesca Perry