Every time I watch the Jet2Holidays-like postcard videos during the Eurovision Song Contest, my attention isn’t on the dancer. It isn’t on the adorable, but way too skinny dog, or the inexplicable fake robot on the screen.
Instead, I think about the thirty seconds each artist has left.
In the latest episode of Eurovision Uncovered, our new podcast for ESC Insight, we focus on the artists – and the pressure that performing in the world’s biggest song contest comes with. In that half a minute before they step into the lights and the gaze of millions of eyes, an artist could achieve their dream…or live their nightmare.
Imagine their heartbeat. Pump-pump, pump-pump. Your heart is racing like Oscar Piastri through Spa-Francorchamps. Your heart is pounding and skipping a beat.
And let’s not forget: you’ve spent nearly a year building up to this moment, or more. You wrote the song, your friends liked it, a whole creative team designed the staging, you’ve given approximately 627 interviews in the past few weeks, and there’s a single fly in your hotel room determined to destroy your will to live.
You’ve never been so tired, but at the same time you have never been more ready.
For most artists competing in the Song Contest, this all is a once in a lifetime experience. But some artists keep coming back. They want more – or they need to relive the nostalgia. Like Depeche Mode, they just can’t get enough.
Sometimes I see the European Broadcasting Union (EBU) as King George III in the musical Hamilton. When the credits roll after the Grand Final, there the EBU stands. In full glam. “You’ll be back, soon, you’ll see. You’ll remember you belong to me.”
The Visibility
Over the decades, the Eurovision Song Contest has seen dozens of returning artists: Corry Brokken, Fud Leclerc, Peter, Sue & Marc, Carola Häggkvist, Johnny Logan, Jedward, Alexander Rybak, Željko Joksimović, Valentina Monetta, Loreen: do you want me to continue?
But what compels them to return? Why risk tarnishing their legacy or reigniting old anxieties? The reasons are complex.
Some are personal. Some are pragmatic. Some are profoundly sociological.
At its simplest, the Song Contest offers something few other platforms can: unparalleled visibility. As the EBU points out once or twice, Each May, the Contest reaches an audience of over 160 million. For many artists, especially those from smaller, less populated countries, there’s no other moment where so many eyes, ears, and algorithms align in an instant. A comeback can revive an extinguished career overnight. Just think of all the streaming spikes, media interviews, and international bookings, even if you don’t win.
As ChartMasters data shows, Spotify, Apple Music and YouTube streams for former Eurovision contestants increase dramatically during the season, particularly for artists returning after a hiatus.
I like to think of Eurovision as a brand amplifier. A sort of big, loud pink megaphone… especially for returning contestants who already have name recognition and can see the exposure translate into renewed commercial value. Or another win, ideally.
The Economics
Let’s not be naive: financial incentives play a major role.
Artists rarely receive direct payment from participating in the Eurovision Song Contest in general. This may come as a surprise, but in the world of gigantic musical performances or festivals, this is not an uncommon practice. For example, artists performing in the Super Bowl Halftime Show also forego a paycheck.
But in Eurovision, the surrounding ecosystem (think of concerts, television appearances, streaming income) can be lucrative. A well-timed return can mean new or better management deals, sponsors, label interest: a pan-European relevance. The more you’re in the picture, the more money you can make. While I doubt that Dana International returned to the Contest just to grin at their bank balance, let’s be real here – it’s definitely a huge perk.
Mass attention, in an era of streaming fragmentation, is almost priceless. Returning is a rational career strategy at a contest that operates like an economy of attention.
On a more structural level, returning artists have a distinct advantage: they understand the system. The Eurovision Song Contest is a Bowie-esque Labyrinth of staging logistics, jury politics, press conferences, interviews and selection rules. First-timers often find it overwhelming and a lot to bear. Veterans know how to navigate it. It’s not their first rodeo, baby.
It’s more likely they’ll succeed, too. A 2025 study by Northwestern University, Evanston, Illinois, titled Breaking the Code: Multi-Level Learning in the Eurovision Song Contest found that returning participants often performed better than new artists with the juries.
The researchers attributed this to “learned calibration”: the ability to tailor musical and visual elements to Eurovision’s unspoken rules and expectations. In other words, those who’ve played before know the game.
Still, it is never foolproof. For example, 2024 showed that experience doesn’t guarantee success. None of that year’s returning artists, including Hera Björk and Natalia Barbu, made it to the Grand Final.
The Comeback Narrative
That leads to the first sociological layer: the narrative of redemption. Many returnees are driven by the feeling that they have some “unfinished business.”
Maybe their first entry didn’t go as planned. Maybe their song was misunderstood, their staging weak, a last note went wrong, or their year was overshadowed by controversy.
The “Comeback Narrative” has its own dramaturgy: defeat, resilience, and rebirth on a glittering stage. Some artists need to prove they can do better, overcome everything, and thrive.
Structurally, the Eurovision Song Contest itself strongly encourages comebacks. There is no rule against returning: in fact, the system often rewards it. National broadcasters frequently invite or welcome previous participants, knowing that their name recognition draws media attention and boosts viewership. In some (usually smaller) countries, the same handful of artists rotate through the contest cycle year after year. As Eurovision.tv pointed out in its “Many Happy Returns” feature from 2017, “If at first you don’t succeed, try and try again” has become a significant part of the Contest’s DNA.
Take the case of Poli Genova. The Bulgarian was one of the finalists of the Bulgarian national selection in Oslo 2010 with the song “One Lifetime Is Not Enough“. The song placed second, not earning a place for the Contest itself. A year later, she returned to Bulgaria’s national final, but won – earning the right to represent the country in the Eurovision Song Contest in Düsseldorf. But she didn’t qualify for the final, placing a disappointing 12th place in the Second Semi-Final.
In 2015 Genova was asked to host the Junior Eurovision Song Contest on her home soil in Sofia. Then, Bulgarian National Television internally selected her to once again represent Bulgaria in 2016, with the song “If Love Was a Crime”.
After almost six years, Genova became the first Bulgarian entrant to reach the Grand Final since Elitsa & Stoyan in 2007 and went on to finish fourth, setting a new record for Bulgaria’s highest placement at the time.
This achievement was not begged, stolen or borrowed. The journey Poli Genova made is a road of discipline, patience, resilience and redemption. At Eurovision, you can tell the world: I have grown as a person, but even more as an artist.
The Sociology of Belonging
The Eurovision Song Contest’s pull can also be communal. To many, it’s less a contest than a community.
Each year, tens of thousands attend pre-parties in cities like Madrid, Amsterdam, and London. Online communities on Discord, BlueSky and Reddit form a hyperactive, diverse subculture, analysing every performance, costume, and camera angle.
The love and attention you get from the Eurovision community is almost unconditional. As Ewan Spence wrote on this site a few years ago: No matter how we celebrate our passion, every fan is a true fan.
For returning artists, the sense of belonging and familiarity is an asset. They know the process: the stressful rehearsals, the press circuit, the national selection politics, the backstage chaos. As Iceland’s Hera Björk said about her 2024 comeback to Aussievision: “It’s like when you travel to a new city, it’s like coming to an airport that you know, you know where to get your luggage, you know how to get the metro, it’s just easier.”
It’s a telling metaphor: returning to the Song Contest feels like returning to a familiar terminal. Stressful, nerve-wracking, yes: but you know where to get the best snacks.
The Feedback Loop
The trend of artists returning to the Eurovision Song Contest seems likely to continue.
Artists approach Eurovision with foresight: planning comebacks, building online presence, and aligning releases around the contest. Some wait years before returning, others come back in a few years (and some too soon).
The record gap between appearances is now over 30 years. Recently, Poland’s Justyna Steczkowska returned in 2025 after three decades away. And as Eurovision becomes more digital and algorithmic, the term “returning” doesn’t just mean stepping back on stage. It now means reactivating an online fanbase, reminding television shows to book you, re-entering playlists, and re-surfacing on TikTok and YouTube algorithms.
Ultimately, Eurovision is about building and experiencing narratives. National, personal, artistic. Returning artists really embody the Song Contest’s emotional heart: the conceptual idea that failure isn’t final, that music can rewrite a story and that old friends will always be there to comfort you. I think Bertolt Brecht (boy, he would have loved Germany 2009) would agree that the Contest is an epic theatre piece filled with drama, spectacle, and social commentary. Here, returning artists are like recurring characters whose comebacks carry extra, onion-like layers of meaning, subtext, and expectation.
Returning artists bridge past and present, reminding audiences that pop and musical culture, like Eurovision itself, thrives on reinvention. As long as the stage and the audience exist, there will be those who’ve stood on it before, ready to try and amaze you again.
For some, it’s redemption. For others, it’s a strategy. For Petra Mede, it’s a guaranteed booking every May. But for most, it’s simply the irresistible call of the lights, the flags, the goosebumps from hearing the roar of a pan-European crowd. Once you’ve felt it, it’s indescribably hard not to want more.
How many times in a lifetime can you feel like the most famous person in the world?