Sun Room @ Sinclair 10/23

Photography by Annabel Friedman

Review by Reaghan Sassower

The night started with that kind of restless excitement that only happens before a great show—friends shouting over music between sets, drinks in hand, the crowd inching closer to the stage. The Sinclair was packed tight, the air buzzing with warmth and anticipation as fans waited for Sun Room, the California surf-rock band turning heads across the country. But before the main act hit, the opener, West 22nd, made sure the crowd was already wide awake.

West 22nd came out swinging. Their mix of shimmering guitar tones and punchy indie-rock beats instantly filled the room. Each song felt bigger than the last, from the catchy, road-trip feel of their debut album “Nowhere to Be,” to the heavier moments that showed how tight they’ve become as a live band. Frontman Logan Madsen had the kind of stage presence that makes people pay attention—funny, confident, and clearly having the time of his life. By the time they wrapped their set, the whole crowd was moving. You could tell they’d earned more than a few new fans that night.

Then the lights dropped, and the noise rose. When Sun Room walked onstage, the room exploded. The opening riff of “Just Yesterday” hit like caffeine, and suddenly the crowd was one moving, yelling, jumping body. Their surf-rock sound was loud and unpolished in the best way—sunny melodies and sharp guitars that somehow felt perfect in a sweaty Boston venue. “Can’t Explain” and “Hate It When You Call” kept the pace wild, the kind of songs that turn standing-room shows into full-body experiences.

By the time they tore into “Crashed My Bike,” the pit had opened—a blur of arms and laughter, people jumping together, strangers holding each other up when they fell. It wasn’t violent, just pure energy, that chaotic joy that makes everyone feel like part of the same moment. Luke Asgian leaned into it, smiling between verses and joking about the cold New England weather, saying, “You’re making it feel like California in here.”

The crowd roared through “Outta Their Minds” and “Don’t Cause a Riot,” songs that hit harder live than any recording could capture. Even during slower numbers like “Sol Del Sur,” there was a warmth that held the room together—voices low, lights glowing red, everyone catching their breath before diving right back in.

At one point, Asgian paused to thank the crowd, talking about how surreal it felt to see so many people across the country singing their lyrics back to them. It was a quick moment, but it grounded the chaos—a reminder that beneath all the noise and motion, there’s something real connecting the band and the fans. The crowd answered back with cheers that felt less like applause and more like gratitude, like everyone knew they were part of something special.

As the night went on, the energy never dipped. The band fed off the crowd’s momentum, and the crowd only got louder in return. You could feel it in the floorboards, in the ringing of ears between songs, in the way people screamed the opening chords before the band even started playing. There was a rare kind of synergy between the stage and the pit—one that made it feel less like a performance and more like a shared release, a collective exhale after the long week.

The encore brought it all home. When the band started “Fun,” the mosh pit came back twice as strong, the floor bouncing like it might crack. They closed with “Oslo, Paris, LA,” guitars ringing out as fans screamed every word.

When the lights finally came up, no one was ready to leave. People stood around, grinning, drenched, still shouting about how good it was. Sun Room didn’t just play a set—they turned an ordinary Thursday into a California summer night. With West 22nd’s effortless energy setting the tone and Sun Room’s chaotic surf-rock joy closing it out, this wasn’t just a concert—it was the kind of night that sticks with you.