The lights dimmed, a giant wormhole spun across the stage. The backdrop flickered, projection plastics coiling like a sci‑fi vision that had nothing to do with the usual studio set. Colbert hovered for a heartbeat, the camera catching that final, almost nervous, smile before the applause started to rise.
Then the music rolled in. Paul McCartney's guitar sang a warped version of “The Edge of Glory.” Elvis Costello's voice dripped through a sour note, and Jon Batiste's horns filled the air with an impossible swirl of jazz‑rock. The trio's chords stitched together an epoch more than an ending: it was
