One of the best singer-songwriters in America walked off a stage recently in Las Vegas after playing five songs, and if you’ve seen hundreds of concerts in this town like I have, you probably know why.

Todd Snider is a hippie-folk-country-rock troubadour in his late 40s whom they call “the mayor of East Nashville.” He’s been touring for 20 or so years, has released major-label albums and has seen his songs covered by Garth Brooks and many others. He’s also the singer in Hard Working Americans—a superband featuring members of Widespread Panic and The Chris Robinson Brotherhood—an author, the subject of documentaries, etc.

His persona might be that of a slacker burnout druggie dude, but Snider is an absolute master of his craft—a songwriter’s songwriter, and an equally adept, if not better, performer, a storyteller so charismatic and hilarious (on a good night), you might pay just to hear him ramble between songs. Think Nebraska-era Springsteen if he had a hit of LSD, or Bob Dylan if he had a personality.

And so I wondered how, during a seated, solo acoustic show September 20 at Vinyl, Snider would deal with a drunk woman in the front row who cackled throughout “Play a Train Song,” a poignant number about the singer finding his friend dead. After finishing the song to the applause of the less-than-half-full venue, Snider said he was going to stay on the subject of dead friends, and began to tell a story about Eddy Shaver, the brilliant country guitarist who overdosed in 2000.

But we didn’t get to see where the story went, because after one fateful burst from the same woman, Snider just stopped talking. She continued to cackle. And he waited. And the guy she was with yelled, “She’s laughing with you.” And Snider quietly sat. And the air in the room got thicker. And someone yelled, “I love you.” And the woman cackled. And Snider waited. And someone yelled, “Your music has helped me.” And Snider said, “Thank you.” And the woman cackled. And Snider sat. “I’m thinking of what to do,” he said. More cackling. More waiting. More discomfort. Then Snider simply said, “I’m going to go,” and gently set his guitar down, grabbed his coat and walked out the side exit into the casino. And he didn’t come back.

The scene that followed wasn’t anything the peace-lovin’ Snider would have endorsed. It involved fans yelling at the woman and her partner—someone even jumped onstage to scream down at them—a thrown bracelet, some spilled beer, security, etc. Fortunately it didn’t get physical, but it was damn close. But that’s not the point of this. And the point really isn’t even that Snider walked off the stage (and went on to play two long sets in Salt Lake City the following night), because he has walked off stages before.

The point is that the so-called Entertainment Capital of the World is often not a very nice place for entertainers, no matter how much respect they deserve. I’m talking about Snider. I’m talking about Conor Oberst of Bright Eyes, who could be considered my generation’s Dylan—telling noisy audience members to hit the casino if they wanted to talk. I’m talking about Jeff Tweedy of Wilco, a band that rewrote the book on alt-country, nearly walking offstage after admonishing a loud crowd. And I’m talking about Lou Reed actually walking offstage here due to a chatty audience, though he was coaxed back out.

This isn’t an issue of certain singers asking too much. Whether it’s a rock god on the Strip, or a struggling singer-songwriter like myself on Fremont Street, when people talk at the wrong times, it’s disrespectful. More importantly, it makes it tough for us to do our already hard job—connecting with people. I often play shows with a rockin’ band, forcing myself on the audience with the almighty power of volume. And while that’s fun, my most rewarding moments have come with an acoustic guitar and a crowd willing to float into my hand like a dandelion seed. It’s the kind of thing musicians sacrifice financial security and relationships to chase, and it has the power to change (or even save) a listener’s life. And sometimes, the only thing standing in its way is one set of flapping lips.

So I can’t say I fault Snider, especially because he suffers from painful arthritis in his back and plans to retire from touring soon. In a way, it made me respect the man even more, because we’ve all wanted to do that at times. But what made Snider’s walk-off heartbreaking for me was that the audience might have been small, but it was mostly passionate—musicians, local radio DJs, even a couple from Alabama whose first date was a Snider gig. There was a lot of love in that room, and Snider initially seemed to be enjoying himself. But, unfortunately, as my friend and songwriter Zach Ryan, a Vegas ex-pat now living in Snider’s East Nashville, once titled a song, “Love ain’t enough.”