Frank Turner pics and review
Frank Turner
May 9, 2025
Mercury Music Lounge (Lakewood, Ohio)
Openers: Katacombs, Dave Hause
by: Robert McCune


Forget your grandpappy’s folk revival. At the Mercury Music Lounge in Lakewood, Ohio, on May 9th, the acoustic guitars weren’t just strumming sweet melodies; they were practically spitting fire. While none bore Woody Guthrie’s legendary “This Machine Kills Fascists” scrawl, you could feel that defiant spirit thrumming in the hands of Frank Turner, Dave Hause, and Katacombs. This wasn’t a gentle singalong; it was a defiant roar, a cathartic release, and a stark reminder that even unplugged, music can still pack a revolutionary punch.

Katacombs, aka Katerina Kiranos, kicked off the night with a sound as unique as her bone-and-wood sculptures. Imagine Tori Amos jamming with Joan Baez after a particularly inspiring trip through different cultures and emotional landscapes. Her debut, You Will Not, is a genre-bending journey, effortlessly shifting from English to Spanish, from quiet introspection to soaring defiance. When she pulled that “magic trick” — a cloud of vape smoke dissolving into a guitar switch from keys — you knew this was no ordinary opening act. Katacombs isn’t just playing songs; she’s building worlds.

Then came Dave Hause, a Philadelphia son who cranked the energy up to eleven. This was punk-folk-rock Americana with a capital “A,” a fist-pumping, heart-on-your-sleeve explosion of sound. “Look Alive” and “Hazard Lights” from his latest, Drive It Like It’s Stolen, resonated with the raw grit of Bryan Adams and the storytelling prowess of Jason Isbell. But Hause isn’t afraid to bleed on stage, either. “Gary,” his raw apology for past bullying, was a gut-punch of vulnerability, a powerful testament to the idea that “hurt people hurt people.” And when his anti-fascist anthem “Dirty Fucker” erupted into a shout-along, the collective anger and frustration in the room was palpable. The subsequent flashlight-waving calm of “Fireflies” was a necessary respite, a communal breath before the storm.

Both Hause and Turner paid heartfelt tribute to their fallen comrade, Scott Hutchison of Frightened Rabbit. Hause wove “The Woodpile” into his own “Low,” while Turner delivered a poignant “The Modern Leper,” a poignant echo of his own tribute to Hutchison, “A Wave Across a Bay.” These moments weren’t just covers; they were acts of communion, a shared grief that bound performers and audience together.

When Frank Turner burst onto the stage in a Black Guy Fawkes tee, anarchy symbols blazing, he wryly quipped, “And you thought you were at a folk concert.” Oh, how wrong they were. Turner, a road-tested veteran with over 3,000 shows under his belt, unleashed a torrent of tracks from his decade-plus discography. From the peppy punk of “Girl From the Record Shop” to the triumphant middle-finger-to-the-haters “Do One” (with a Van Morrison-esque chorus, no less), Turner proved why he’s a master of controlled chaos. His latest, Undefeated, shows he’s still as vital and relevant as ever. And yes, “1933,” his blistering 2018 anti-fascist rallying cry, still carries the same urgent weight: “Don’t go mistaking your house burning down for the dawn.”

No one commands a singalong quite like Frank Turner. It’s not just about the music; it’s about the connection, the collective voice rising in defiance and joy. From the raucous “If Ever I Stray” to the beloved “Ballad of Me and My Friends” and the life-affirming “I Still Believe,” every song was an invitation to participate. Turner’s “fragile ego” may feed on the shouts and hollers, but the audience is more than happy to oblige, knowing they’re part of something bigger than themselves.

The night culminated with “Polaroid Picture,” a stirring call to arms for memory and connection. As Hause and Katacombs rejoined Turner on stage, leading the crowd in a two-part harmony, the message was clear: “Let go of the little distractions, hold close to the ones that you love, cause we won’t all be here this time next year, so while you can take a picture of us.” And in that moment, under the dimmed lights of the Mercury Music Lounge, we did exactly that. We held onto a fleeting, defiant night where the guitars weren’t just killing fascists, they were building bridges, forging connections, and reminding us all that even in the darkest times, rock and roll can still save us all.

Robert McCune is a full-time journalist, a part-time photojournalist and an aspiring rock journalist. Follow his journey at every_thing_after_photo on Instagram, and look for the “Every_Thing_After” podcast on Apple and Spotify.

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