And then, suddenly—she’s there. A silhouette cut sharp against a wall of lights, an opening synth line coiled tight like a spring. “Getting No Sleep,” ironic, because no one here is about to rest now. The bass slams down hard enough to rattle cartilage, the kind that doesn’t just vibrate your sternum but shifts your heartbeat to its tempo. Tinashe moves through it like she’s been choreographed by the music itself, like the beat is wired directly into her nervous system. She’s not waiting for us to catch up. She’s already in motion.
The thing about a Tinashe show is that she doesn’t do passive. This isn’t the kind of gig where you sway, nod along, sip something overpriced and pretend you’re listening. This is sweat-slicked, muscle-aching commitment. This is body music. Feet leaving the ground involuntarily when “When I Get You Alone” slinks into the room, that voice pouring out in slow honey-drip falsetto, and suddenly Brixton is 3AM in a room with the curtains drawn, limbs tangled, breath shared. It’s the kind of track that lulls you in, makes you think maybe you’ve got a chance at breathing again—and then it flips. The bass punches back. She prowls, teasing at the edges of the stage, one step ahead of our anticipation. That’s the game, after all. She knows exactly when to hold back, when to give too much, when to let us think we might catch up.
And the precision. Jesus. There’s no sloppiness here, no room for even a flicker of uncertainty. She is in complete, unrelenting control: of her body, of her breath, of the air inside this building. The choreography isn’t just intricate—it’s weaponized. Every snap, every roll, every near-impossible hold just long enough to make it clear she could do this forever, if she wanted. The dancers—part extension, part reflection—move in sync so seamlessly that it feels like they exist only for this moment, no past, no future. Just now.
You can always tell when the nostalgia cuts deep. “Bouncin’” drops, and the floor is suddenly a trampoline again, a mass singalong of voices nearly drowning her out—not that she needs the help, but she takes it anyway, rides it like a wave, lets the crowd carry her through the hook before she snatches back control, sharp as a DJ pulling the fader back. The energy here isn’t just about looking back; it’s about showing that even now, a decade later, this song still owns us. And her? She owns it. The difference between the past and the present is that back then, she had something to prove. Now, she just knows.
Tinashe’s voice is all contradiction—smoky but crystalline, sharp but feather-light, the kind of thing that sneaks up on you, makes you think you’re safe until it drops from a whisper to a belt with no warning, no mercy. Even when she’s moving—especially when she’s moving—it doesn’t waver. No backing track safety net, no second-guessing. Just her, riding the beat like it’s her personal transportation system.
“2 On” comes like a knockout punch, and it’s clear she’s been holding this one in reserve, saving it like a secret weapon. No barriers now, no hint of restraint. The choreography here isn’t for the faint-hearted; this is pure, visceral assertion. It’s a closer that doesn’t just leave a mark, it carves its name into the bone. If you weren’t already wrung out by the last hour, this is where she finishes the job. And she doesn’t need to say a word when she’s done—just stands there for a beat, grinning, breathing hard, looking at the wreckage she’s made of us.
Then: “Nasty.” No encore, no slow fade. Just the echo of a bassline, the sting of sweat in your eyes, and the realization that your legs might not forgive you tomorrow. But that’s the price, isn’t it? A night with Tinashe isn’t just a concert—it’s an agreement. She gives everything, and in return, you keep nothing in reserve. You don’t leave with memories, you leave with aftershocks.
And you’ll feel them for days.
Words & photos – Richard Isaac
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