It had been a long time since I’d attended a show where a male artist inspired this level of unfiltered devotion. Before the lights even dimmed at The Echo, girls were already yelling, “You’re so hot!” into the room — the kind of chaotic worship that used to orbit early-2010s Tumblr heartthrobs. And then Gunnar walked out in an American-flag shirt, a visual that felt both on-brand and strangely enigmatic. He’s a Los Angeles native, raised on alt-pop and nostalgia-tinged rock, and now — finally — headlining his first hometown tour stop.
The night’s energy started unevenly. Zoe Ko, a New York singer-songwriter who blends pop-punk attitude with club-ready hooks, brought enough voltage to power the room on her own. Wearing a sparkly bra-and-skirt combo with the confidence of an edgy cheer captain, she tore through a set that sampled “Hollaback Girl”, joked about bad taste in men, and gave a speech about feminine rage before orchestrating a scream from every woman-identifying person in the crowd.
The crowd, sadly, stayed stiff — which had nothing to do with Zoe Ko, who performed like someone who’s been touring for years. After the show, I told her exactly that and mentioned how her confidence and physicality reminded me of Olivia Rodrigo. She lit up and said, “YES!!” — confirming that Olivia Rodrigo is an influence and that she’s already been on three tours, learning stagecraft from artists she admires. You can feel it immediately: the sharp acting beats, the controlled chaos, the flirtatious command of the room.
At one point, she re-entered holding a banana after a fake phone-call cue, then launched into a speech on feminine rage before instructing every woman-identifying person to scream on the count of three. For her final track, she leaned fully into the NYC club world she misses — throwing on a punk jacket, sunglasses, and a black purse to complete the look. The beat shifted into something grittier, more late-night, and she stepped directly into the crowd to drag the energy up with her. It definitely deserved a better response than LA gave her.
Then came thebandfriday, whose name matches their vibe: gentle, approachable, and very “soft indie boy” coded. Their sound lands somewhere between Peach Pit’s breeziness, a touch of shoegaze haze, and the mellow folk shimmer of artists like Aquilo or Novo Amor. Their double harmonies were clean, the guitar work was tasteful, and everything fit together smoothly — sometimes so smoothly that individual moments blurred into each other.
That said, the crowd clearly recognized their more popular songs, and toward the end, the band eased into a more atmospheric, emotional space that suited them really well. They aren’t a band driven by spectacle or high-energy antics; instead, they offer a calm, steady presence that some parts of the room connected with once the set opened up.
Then the tone shifted immediately. Gunnar — newly breaking beyond his years as an opener — was greeted like a hometown hero. Fans already knew every lyric. A guy named Adam shouted, “I love you!” and Gunnar, laughing, said, “That’s what I needed, Adam.”
He talked openly about the difference between being an opener (playing as many songs as fast as possible, relying on covers to win over strangers) and finally having space to slow down. It was the first time in his career, he said, that he could breathe onstage.
That breathing room set up the night’s most vulnerable moment: a song he once thought wouldn’t make the album. He explained it came from watching someone he knew change under the influence of a partner — reassuring the crowd it wasn’t about his fiancée of 6–7 years. Later, a fan quietly told me the song was actually from his father’s perspective, making the quiet staging even heavier. Gunnar sat centered between his two guitarists on bar stools, one acoustic and one electric, letting the room settle around him.
He spoke about wanting to play only his own songs for once, not covers. He introduced an unreleased track written on a tour bus three years ago with his best friend (who was in the room), reflecting on the loneliness of hotel rooms and missing his fiancée. One song even leaned unexpectedly into Royal Blood territory, proving he’s not locked into the soft-alt lane people expect from him.
The show wasn’t flawless. A few pacing dips, a few moments where a more seasoned performer might’ve shaped the silence differently. But the sentiment was clear: this was a young artist stepping into a space he’d worked years to reach, unsure and grateful and fully present. The flag shirt didn’t feel ironic anymore by the end. It felt like something closer to biography — a nod to origin, family, and a boyhood he’s still untangling while a room full of people screamed his lyrics back louder than he could sing them.
