Tonight at Exeter’s Lemon Grove, Frank Turner brought his Campfire Punkrock Twenty tour to Exeter’s Lemon Grove venue, a celebration of the scrappy, heartfelt EP that lit the fuse on his solo career. But before Turner revisits those formative songs, the room was shaped by two support acts who each bring their own histories and emotional worlds to the stage: Dave Hause and Katacombs.

Opening proceedings was Katerina Kiranos, performing under the name Katacombs, an artist shaped by movement, culture and reinvention. Born in Miami to a Spanish mother and Greek father, she spent her early life drifting between countries and identities, a restlessness that now colours her music. Her heartfelt indie‑folk Americana drifted through the room like a warm breeze. There’s a lovely American lilt to her voice, soft, tender, gentle, the kind that sounds exquisite even in a room where half the crowd seems determined to discuss football scores and little Archie’s progress at school.

Between songs, she revealed a life lived in chapters: eight years running a woodshop, music always simmering in the background, and a pandemic that forced her to choose between sawdust and songwriting. She followed in the footsteps of her brother, “a famous musician,” she hinted with a grin, and stepped fully into her own craft. Some songs were stripped back to just her and an acoustic guitar; others were built on backing tracks she affectionately introduced as “The Weeping Souls”, her on‑stage box of tricks. “If anything goes wrong, I’ve got nobody to blame but myself,” she laughed.

Her storytelling was magnetic — from a recent panic attack in Manchester to the imposter syndrome that still nips at her heels. She dedicated a song to the people who helped her through it, a track that swelled into something immense and emotionally charged. And then there was the running joke of the night: her love of Marks & Spencer food and her favourite thing in the world, Tunnocks Tea Cakes. Naturally, she dedicated a love song to them. Why wouldn’t she? They’re lush.

Thirty minutes breezed by. Her songs deserve a silent room, a late‑night listen, a chance to wash over you properly. Heartbreak, honesty, purity, all delivered with a quiet power that lingered long after she left the stage.

Next up was Dave Hause, another solo performer but cut from a different cloth — blue‑collar acoustic folk‑punk with a rock’n’roll backbone. You can hear instantly why Frank Turner is a fan. Hause sings like a man who’s lived every line he writes, and he played his heart out. He clocked the talkers too, calling out the small but persistent cluster of chatterboxes who were “really fucking annoying for people who paid good money to be here.” The room cheered. Hallelujah indeed.

Hause spoke candidly about being 10 years sober, admitting the process “wasn’t much fun” and advising only to do it if you absolutely have to. His song Hazard Lights, written about getting clean, hit hard. There were lighter moments too: discovering The Cavern in Exeter is still standing (“Really?!”), teasing the crowd that they had a chance to outdo Bristol, and checking in on a fan who fainted the night before and was now bravely front‑row again. “Drink more water. Get some sleep,” he urged.

His set was full of call‑and‑response moments, singalongs, and one gloriously furious track Dirty Fucker, dedicated to “the Orange Baboon,” my nickname for the President of the USA. By the end, the room was warmed through and more than ready for Turner.

Frank Turner walked on to The Ballad of Me and My Friends, and the room erupted. That one line, where he mentions that “he’s playing another (insert name of town or city) show” hit like a homecoming, the crowd was already in full voice.

Turner is a consummate professional, the kind of performer who can have a room eating out of his hand with a raised eyebrow. Even nursing a cold, he powered through, asking for help on Do One and getting it in spades.

Tonight was show #3139, and he reflected on his long history with Exeter, 16 shows in 20 years, many at The Cavern. He wore a Meffs vest proudly (their new album BUSINESS is out now), and spoke with genuine affection about the city and the milestone he was here to celebrate: 20 years of Campfire Punkrock.

What followed was a setlist built on memory, meaning and a fair bit of mischief. The Real Damage arrived early, introduced as a drinking song and greeted like an old friend, before the room erupted into a full‑throttle singalong for I Am Disappeared and Recovery, both of which proved the crowd barely needed Turner there at all. Substitute landed with nostalgic warmth — “an old one, but not the oldest,” he joked — while Mittens became a communal triumph, the audience stepping in for The Sleeping Souls and helping Turner turn the track into something unexpectedly huge and emotional. He dusted off Casanova Lament from the Campfire Punkrock EP, then strummed the opening lines of Thatcher Fucked the Kids, laughing at the idea that some people in the room were younger than the song itself. Be More Kind arrived with a quiet plea for compassion, the room falling so silent during the lull you could hear a pin drop, before I Knew Prufrock Before He Got Famous swept everyone back into full‑voice storytelling mode. One of the most affecting moments came with Somewhere Inbetween, a raw, vulnerable reflection on insecurity and imposter syndrome that tied beautifully back to themes raised earlier in the night.

He also dipped into the “songs people should have liked” pile, inspired by a conversation with Jaret Reddick of Bowling For Soup, including a wonderfully odd track about Charles Dickens advertising his services as a resurrectionist (The Resurrectionists).

Watching the front row was a show in itself — die‑hard fans mouthing every lyric, clearly following the tour from city to city and possibly country to country!

The closing stretch of the night was pure, unfiltered release, kicking off with If I Ever Stray, its joyous ba‑ba‑ba refrain turning the room into one giant choir. Photosynthesis followed, signalling the beginning of the end as the crowd roared every line back at him, before Get Better pushed things into cathartic territory, a full‑throated moment of collective defiance. Without pausing for breath, Turner launched into I Still Believe, a song that has become a communal ritual at his shows, arms raised and voices cracking with devotion.

Turner skipped the traditional encore charade, “I could run off, wait 57 seconds, and come back… but I’m not doing that anymore.” Instead, he stayed put, honest as ever, and closed the night on his own terms.

And then came Polaroid Picture, the perfect finale, made even more touching as Dave Hause and Katacombs returned to the stage to close the night shoulder‑to‑shoulder, a celebratory, full‑circle moment that wrapped the whole evening in warmth.

Tonight was more than just a gig, it was a gathering of stories, scars, humour, and heart. Katacombs brought tenderness, Dave Hause brought fire, and Frank Turner brought the kind of connection that only comes from 20 years of singing your truth to rooms full of strangers.

Exeter, you showed up, you sang, and for a night built around an EP recorded in a friend’s house two decades ago, it felt like something still burning bright.

Cheers!

Words - Steve Muscutt

Pictures - Martha Fitzpatrick

Setlist

The Ballad of Me and My Friends

Nashville Tennessee

Do One

The Real Damage

I Am Disappeared

Recovery

Substitute

Mittens