The Lights Come Up Either Way: Nine UK Artists on the Encore They Didn’t Play

An encore used to feel like a foregone conclusion. Band leaves, crowd claps, band comes back, everyone goes home happy. But spend a few evenings in UK venues and you notice something less scripted happening. Sometimes the return is electric. Sometimes it is a formality. And sometimes the most generous thing an artist can do is stay gone.

That is not a complaint about audiences. It is a craft question. The encore sits at the edge of the set, where ego, curfew, train times and the price of a pint all meet. It is less a reward than a negotiation. I asked nine UK artists how they read the room for one more — and how they decide when one more is one too many.

The front row makes the first argument

Nadia Okonjo, a Leeds-based songwriter, says the decision starts before the applause. 'If the front row is still leaning in, you can feel it,' she says. 'If they are checking their phones for the last train, that is information too.' She describes the encore as a temperature check rather than a victory lap. The room might be loud, but loud is not the same as present. A crowd can cheer for the lights to come up as much as for another song.

Tom Berriman, who plays folk venues around Bristol, puts it another way. 'We used to rehearse a big finish. Now we rehearse the pause after it.' That pause is where the question lives. Does the room want the band back, or does it want permission to leave? The two are not always easy to tell apart, especially after two hours and a second pint.

The clock is in the band

Curfews are not a myth invented by killjoy promoters. They are the reason the last Tube is caught, the reason the bar staff get paid, and the reason a venue keeps its licence. Priya Raval, a Manchester electronic artist, says she now treats the clock as part of the arrangement. 'The curfew is not a suggestion. The venue staff have homes to go to.'

That sounds obvious, but it changes the shape of the ending. If the encore is already planned, the set has to leave room for it. If it is not, the set has to land properly on its own. Callum Doig, frontman of a Glasgow indie band, says the worst version is the pretend encore: the walk-off, the waiting, the inevitable return. 'A fake encore is the same as a fake laugh. Everyone can hear it.'

Rehearsing the option, not the ritual

None of the artists I spoke to are against encores. They are against encores as muscle memory. Bethan Rees, a Cardiff singer-songwriter, says she keeps two endings ready: one that closes the night and one that opens it again. 'Leaving without coming back can be the most respectful thing you do all night,' she says. The choice is the point. Not the tradition.

Sam Okoro, a London jazz drummer, takes a practical route. 'We ask the sound engineer what the room sounds like empty. That tells you whether another song will land or just echo.' A sparse room can make a quiet encore feel like a secret. A cavernous one can turn it into a chore. The same song is not the same song in both.

What a non-encore can say

Ruth Achebe, who plays bass in a Sheffield post-punk band, watches the merch desk. 'If people are already queuing, they have decided the night is over.' That is not an insult. It is a read. The audience has chosen to take something home with them rather than stand in the dark for another chorus. A band that ignores that choice is not giving the crowd more; it is asking them to pretend.

Iwan Meredith, a Newport-based guitarist, has a rule that sounds like a joke until you try it: 'If the second song would be worse than the first, don’t do the second.' The encore is not a quantity question. It is an editing question. One song that lands is better than three that merely fill time. Fiona Strang, an Edinburgh cellist, remembers a night when the band played one song, no speech, no house lights, no big finish. 'It felt like a door closing gently,' she says. 'That was the whole encore.'

The room after the room

What stays with you after a gig is not always the return. Sometimes it is the exit. The house lights coming up on a crowd that is still humming. The singer putting down the guitar and saying thank you like they mean it. The sound of a venue emptying while the last chord is still in the air.

The encore is a question, yes. But it is also a chance to be honest about what the room needs. Nine artists, nine different answers. The only wrong one is the one that treats the audience like a button to press. The lights come up either way. The craft is in deciding what happens before they do.