The pre-noon ecosystem of a big tour, not normally welcoming of spoiled band dudes, brings me inordinate comfort, and I’m up early - well, touring musician early, around 7:30am - watching dozens of hardhat-clad local crew unload pieces of LED wall.

The bus and truck drivers, united in their contrariness and off-kilter professionalism, bust each other’s balls, chain smoking in condiment-stained, Costco-brand sweat pants. One of the truck drivers has a Siberian Husky, and my goal tomorrow’s to win its favor by way of bacon from catering.

A well-run stage feels similar to a well-run kitchen - nothing’s rushed, no one’s yelling, and everyone knows, to the microscopic detail, what their job is - and Train’s tour manager calmly directs traffic, barely speaking above a whisper. Both their and the Goo crew are seasoned pros, and appreciative I think of this not being our first rodeo.

Everyone’s still in early tour focus mode, but judging by the progressive metal cranking in the next room, there’re kindred spirits to be met.