I am, as they say here in Australia, “up at sparrows,” swimming in jet lag but happy as a clam, strolling along the streets of Melbourne near our hotel, early enough that go-getter types are jogging and yoga-ing and drinking soy-based caffeine-y things, and late enough that boozy, skinny-jean enthusiasts are staggering home. It’s sunny and lovely and we’re going to play soul music in front of a thousand or so people tonight.
Survival tip for touring musicians: if you want to do this for a living, sleep is like water. No amount of whiskey-soaked buffoonery’s worth waking up in a foreign country with a nuclear cold. Melbourne’s a fantastic city, but my days of staying out until the wee hours and tying one on are, for the most part, behind me, as is going full-Bourdain. I’m all about a morning constitutional, strong cup of coffee, a few pictures, then power nap and show mode time. I just saw how much they’re charging for tickets, and good lord do I ever owe it to the fans to play my ass off.