I’m still buzzing before the lights even drop. Gold Coast night two. Warm air, sea salt, that fizzy charge I only get when a stadium hums like a beehive. Third album out, miles of tour behind me, and I still feel nineteen for the first five seconds of every show. I prowl the catwalk, reading signs—birthdays, proposals, “play Medicine” with ten exclamation points. Then I spot you. Close to the barricade, shoulder to shoulder with your mate. You’re holding a bit of cardboard with thick black letters: