Concert review: Frank Turner & the Sleeping Souls w/ Bedouin Soundclash and Bridge City Sinners | 09.13.24, The Pageant (with photo gallery)

Photo of Frank Turner by Bryan J. Sutter

For as long as I have been writing about and photographing live music, I have heard a never-ending amount of praise for Britian’s Mr. Frank Turner. While there are many guys out there that get called a punk rock troubadour, Turner might be one of the few worthy to wear the slacks. He’s released a number of well-respected and beloved records, and toured the globe multiple times with a who’s who of record store snob-approved acts from just about every era of punk. When I saw that Turner was returning to The Pageant here in St. Louis on September 13th, I knew I had to catch him.

Canada’s Bedouin Soundclash presented a punkish reggae sound played by people who aren’t high school band nerds with ridiculous sideburns, reminding you that music that sounds like this can actually be awesome. Singer Jay Malinowski seemed a little bit at odds with the tepid response of the crowd early on during their set, but a mutual warmth did come about as their performance went on. St. Louis is and always will be where egos get checked in this industry, even if it isn’t justified. Big credit to the band for powering through a crowd that at times seemed very indifferent and still delivering a lovely start to the night.

Bridge City Sinners, a death folk outfit from Portland, look like the sort of folks you see around Bourbon Street leading ghost tours through the French Quarter. Like Bedouin, they exist in a musical space with a terrible signal to noise ratio and stand to be one of the shining diamonds in a sea of records designed to head straight to the dust bin. Their new record In The Age of Doubt is worth a listen.

Frank Turner hit the stage with an empathetic heart and mind. The crowd was beyond stoked and Turner had boundless energy. Every song felt like an anthem, even if it necessarily wasn’t. The sort of show that envelops you like a beloved childhood memory, or the feeling you had when you finally paid off your shitbox car. While Turner’s approach to punk isn’t always to my taste, I was nevertheless wholly impressed as I watched him and his cohorts perform in a way that felt like no belted lyrics or guitar strum was half-assed. This was a whole-assed show if there ever were one.

What we witnessed was like a DIY show but on a big stage. Turner kept it personal and meaningful, finding a way to explain the genesis of the song “Letters” (an unforgettable childhood penpal) off Undefeated in a way that both got you right in the feels and also made you laugh. His performance of “A Wave Across the Bay,” a tribute to the unfortunately departed Scott Hutchenson of Frightened Rabbit, held the venue still. Earlier in the show, he had encouraged what I can only describe as the lazy river of circle pits, a moment which now stood in stark contrast to the unbound sorrow before us.

Of course, this was an evening where I could not stay for the entirety of the show, and I was soon outside walking to my car. In those steps further and further from the faint sound of music emitting from The Pageant, I thought to myself that Frank Turner had lived up to everything I had ever heard about his live show, that it was an almost singular experience. While I was unhappy that I did not get to stay for the whole night, what I did experience will stay with me for a long while. | Bryan J. Sutter

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