“I don’t know anything about music. In my line, you don’t have to.”
Elvis Presley
Look, this isn’t about Snow Patrol.
They just happened to be the band on stage that night.
It had been a while since my last concert—and, as it turns out, a while since I’d been reminded of one of my most persistent pet peeves: the encore.
The show was fantastic. One of those rare nights where the sound is perfect, the crowd is in sync, and you know every lyric without trying. It was everything you want a concert to be—right up until Gary Lightbody leaned into the mic and said, “This is our last song!”
Oh, really Gary?
Really?
Because unless your guitar is on fire or the venue’s about to be condemned, we all know this isn’t “the last song.” What you actually mean is: we’re about to pretend the concert is over so that we can all play our parts in this little ritual of denial.
The lights stay low.
The crowd roars.
And the band waits just long enough to make you start wondering if they actually left.
They didn’t.
Why do we do this? Why are encores still a thing? Can we not just agree that they’re scheduled? No one’s surprised. No one’s unsure. It’s not “a moment.” It’s stagecraft.
And yet, every time, we clap like Pavlov’s audience. The lights dim, the applause swells, and somewhere backstage someone’s drinking water and saying, “Let’s make them wait thirty more seconds.”
There was this one time when Shelley and I saw Prince.
The man was an icon—musical brilliance, unmatched showmanship, and absolutely no respect for bedtime.
He didn’t stop at one encore. Or two.
He gave us three. And before the first, a full twenty-minute blackout.
Twenty minutes.
In silence.
Clapping.
That’s not anticipation—that’s cardio.
It’s not that I don’t love the music. I just don’t love the choreography of pretending it’s over when we all know it isn’t. I’d happily clap for a real ending. I’d even stand. But when the encore is pre-planned, it loses its magic.
So now, when the “final song” begins, I just smile. I know the drill. The band will leave. The lights will stay low. I’ll stretch my legs and wait for the inevitable.
And sure enough, a few minutes later—
They return.
The crowd erupts.
And I sing along—because I’m not made of stone.
