The trouble with nostalgia is that it’s too neat. Everything remembered just-so, wrapped in a neat bow of sentiment, placed carefully on the shelf of collective memory. But Natasha Bedingfield doesn’t do neat. KOKO is a place where the past rubs shoulders with the sweaty present, and her songs—bright, elastic pop things, all sunlight and undulation—live and breathe in the moment, never quite sitting still long enough to fossilize. You think you remember them perfectly? Wrong. They hit different when a thousand people are singing along, notes bent and stretched, the whole thing alive in a way the studio versions never quite captured.
Somewhere between the neon warmth of “Love Like This” and the confessional swell of “Soulmate,” Bedingfield makes a game out of her own catalogue. She slinks through choruses like she’s rediscovering them herself, teases the audience with half-sung intros, then launches headfirst into verses like a kid hurtling down a hill. The voice? Stronger than memory. No breathy pop whisper here—she belts, she soars, she lets phrases dangle in the air before pulling them back. It’s an old-school pop star trick, but she does it with the joy of someone who still loves the bones of these songs.
“Pocketful of Sunshine” lands like an unexpected second wind. The thing about a song that’s been semi-retired to montages and film trailers is that it sneaks up on you live. The synth pulse is softer here, traded in for something warmer, but the effect is the same: a slow build to a sky-high chorus that hangs like a sunbeam over the crowd. No one’s too cool for this one. Hands go up instinctively, people who think they only know the hook suddenly find the lyrics bubbling up from some hidden archive of 2008 radio rotations.
The hush. “Soulmate” unfurls like a sigh, the kinetic energy of the setlist dissolving into something spare and open. The piano chords linger. The song—on record, a polished thing—feels rawer in the space of KOKO, where a thousand voices turn the chorus into something weightier. The question at the heart of it—‘Who doesn’t long for someone to hold?’—sits heavier than it did in 2007, as if years of searching have given it extra gravity. Bedingfield lets it breathe. Doesn’t rush it. Just sits in it, lets the room do the same.
And then, “These Words” is a different kind of beast—fast, cheeky, percussive. The cadence lands like spoken word, the lyrics tumbling out over themselves in a way that shouldn’t work live but absolutely does. Bedingfield leans into the playfulness of it, stretching syllables, hanging onto vowels like she’s savoring the taste of them. It’s clever, but never smug. Just a little knowing, the way a song about writer’s block that became a worldwide hit ought to be.
But you don’t leave a pop show in a contemplative lull, and she knows it. The home stretch is the real trick: “Unwritten” isn’t just a song, it’s a communal experience. Even before the first chord, the anticipation hums. No need to cue the audience, they’re already there, already wading knee-deep into the chorus before the first verse has even started. And when it does? It’s a swell, a rush, that rare moment where the weight of the room is entirely in sync. “Feel the rain on your skin,” and suddenly it’s not just nostalgia, it’s present, immediate, alive in a way that no playlist or memory could ever replicate.
The encore is a glide-down rather than a crash-landing. “Wild Horses,” in its Badger Remix form, floats rather than thunders, the beat a pulse rather than a drive. Bedingfield, ever the host, lets it play out like an afterword, something to leave humming in the back of your mind as you step out into the Camden night.
There’s a reason these songs stick. Not because they’re perfect, not because they’re frozen in amber, but because they breathe. Because they live better in moments like this—sung in unison, belted imperfectly, felt more than listened to. Bedingfield knows it. She’s not here to resurrect the past. She’s here to prove it never really left.
Words & photos – Richard Isaac
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