One of the many nice things about touring Australia’s you’re never at a loss for beatific perches on which to write a daily email newsletter, and this early AM’s no exception.

The scene on the beach is equal parts surfer types, tanned and fit and shredding the gnar, and jet lagged musician types, ghostly pale and with handles made for loving and half-heartedly frolicking in the surf, despite a deep distrust of daylight in general. In a satisfying “I don’t know what to do with my hands” moment, a noteworthy blues musician’s standing in the sand in combat boots, his handler gently suggesting that maybe putting his hand in the water would be ok, and I’m tempted to skip today’s festival set and people watch until my hunger for Tim Tams overwhelms.

But, tragically, I’m back in my hotel room, restringing my guitar, disappointed by my commitment to professionalism, but happy that our tour manager Ryan “Bear” Drozd is snoring on the couch, blissful and carefree, dreaming no doubt of a world devoid of man-children incapable of locating the catering tent.