Bardot’s Big Comeback: Old Rivalries, New Beginnings, and One Notable Absence

Mia Reynolds, 2/4/2026Bardot, the iconic pop group, reunites at Australia's Mighty Hoopla festival, stirring nostalgia and old rivalries as they face the absence of member Sophie Monk. This poignant comeback reflects on their journey, celebrating both their hits and the complexities of their past, proving pop can grow up while still enchanting.

For fans whose adolescence pulsed to these four harmonies, the news lands with a sting and a shiver. The story of Bardot barely lasted past its opening chorus: a much-hyped pop group sewn together by television, shot to the top of the charts, only to splinter before stardust settled. Australia, watching their abrupt 2002 goodbye on Channel V, got an early lesson—maybe a little too early—in how even dreams that sparkle on TV rarely guarantee a neat curtain call.

Absence, though, does funny things. Over the last twenty-odd years, time hasn’t dulled the ache for a reunion; if anything, it’s pressed the nostalgia deeper, past the edges of pop trivia into something almost personal. There was that virtual get-together during the pandemic—screens flickering, memories humming—but it fizzled, thinning out until only half the band pressed on as the disco duo Ka’Bel. Call it a bold reinvention or a necessary divergence; either way, it didn’t quite fill the Bardot-shaped void.

And now? Four out of the original five are making this latest leap, assembling under the bright neurotic wattage of Australia’s first Mighty Hoopla. Tiffani, Belinda, Sally, Katie—each carrying the weight (and wounds) of old headlines, stepping straight into a festival built for precisely this kind of pop resurrection. Noticeably, predictably, Sophie Monk isn’t among them. For those who’ve tracked the band’s journey from manufactured mythology to memoir confessions, this omission doesn’t register as scandal so much as inevitability. Sometimes, the chapter just wouldn’t be written the same way twice.

The lead-up to this reunion has drawn on the raw side of the story—Belinda Chapple’s memoir, in particular, leaves the beats of glamour and exhaustion plainly visible. Not many pop biographies get into the bruised knuckles of the industry, but here’s one that does: per diems that would barely buy a sandwich, manufactured rivalries designed to sell records, and an emotional toll that lingers long after the final note. It’s tempting to glance over these details, to swaddle everything in festival glitter and move on—but maybe that’s selling the magic short.

Festivals, after all, are something of a small rebellion against linear time. Mighty Hoopla, fresh from years on the London circuit, lands in Australia like a rare comet—bringing with it Kesha’s glitter bomb anthems, Becky Hill’s precise pop production, Delta and Jess, and a cast list thick with old-school hitmakers. There’s a sense, in lineups like this, that pop is both forever young and a little battered around the edges; past and present bounce in the same bass line, and for a few golden hours there, it feels entirely sensible to believe in do-overs.

But for Bardot, this isn’t just a shot at recapturing youth. It isn’t about airbrushing away the sharp bits or tidying up old rivalries for a tidy press release. If anything, there’s real power in showing the cracks—standing in front of a crowd that knows every lyric and letting the steam of memory rise up, flawed and shimmering. It’s oddly moving when a track that once soundtracked sleepovers or heartbreaks finds itself echoing along Bondi, backed by voices grown richer and rougher with age.

Sophie’s absence lingers at the edge—a loose thread you sense but don’t tug too hard. Reunions rarely play by the script. Barring the odd reality TV fairy tale, most girl groups don’t come back as they were. These things are always messier, more tangled, and, in a way, more honest.

The festival itself hums with a certain nostalgia-rush—organizers touting “pop fan’s dreams” in the marketing copy—but the scene at Hoopla is delightfully less calculated. Teen idols from a dozen yesteryears share crowded green rooms with new-gen hitmakers; a mosaic of fringe jackets, sequins, and well-worn Doc Martens. Time, for one day, bends and buckles. Rogue Traders and Jamelia sit side by side with the likes of Jessica Mauboy, and every so often someone in the crowd looks just as shocked as the artists to be back where it all began.

Yet beneath the press of the crowd, there’s a quiet kind of reckoning. For longtime listeners, Bardot’s catalogue isn’t simple bubblegum—there’s the complexity of growing up with a band that outpaced its own legend, only to flame out before fans were ready. Pop, at its best, compresses collective memory into three-minute songs; it’s always haunted by what didn’t quite fit, or who left before the encore.

Perhaps that’s why, on a stage lit by both nostalgia and resolve, Bardot’s voices sound fuller than before—not just as a throwback, but as a hard-won celebration. The choreography might have a touch more improvisation, a momentary missed step, or a laugh that bubbles up before a chorus comes back around. Rather than shying away from what’s changed, this reunion seems to lean right into the fact that the past can’t be reclaimed perfectly. That’s the charm.

As the sun dips and the crowd tips forward in anticipation, there’s little doubt this is more than a retro sideshow. In these songs—dusted off but not diminished—there’s proof that pop power doesn’t need to come with innocence or simplicity. It can be all grown up, bruises and all, and still send shivers down a festival’s collective spine. Maybe that’s the real magic, earned over twenty-four years: girl power that’s tougher, sharper, and, for just a few minutes beneath the Bondi stars, completely and fiercely alive.

Picture Bondi in the early haze of a 2025 morning—crisp white sand under a pearl-tinted sky, the sharp tang of sea salt cut by the faint sweetness of melting fairy floss. Out of that pastel dazzle and the scent of sunscreen, something unexpected flickers to life. Bardot—yes, that Bardot—is on the verge of trading old heartbreak for a splash of fresh spotlight, their silhouettes lining up on a festival stage they’ve not graced together since flip phones and frosted tips reigned supreme.For fans whose adolescence pulsed to these four harmonies, the news lands with a sting and a shiver. The story of Bardot barely lasted past its opening chorus: a much-hyped pop group sewn together by television, shot to the top of the charts, only to splinter before stardust settled. Australia, watching their abrupt 2002 goodbye on Channel V, got an early lesson—maybe a little too early—in how even dreams that sparkle on TV rarely guarantee a neat curtain call.Absence, though, does funny things. Over the last twenty-odd years, time hasn’t dulled the ache for a reunion; if anything, it’s pressed the nostalgia deeper, past the edges of pop trivia into something almost personal. There was that virtual get-together during the pandemic—screens flickering, memories humming—but it fizzled, thinning out until only half the band pressed on as the disco duo Ka’Bel. Call it a bold reinvention or a necessary divergence; either way, it didn’t quite fill the Bardot-shaped void.And now? Four out of the original five are making this latest leap, assembling under the bright neurotic wattage of Australia’s first Mighty Hoopla. Tiffani, Belinda, Sally, Katie—each carrying the weight (and wounds) of old headlines, stepping straight into a festival built for precisely this kind of pop resurrection. Noticeably, predictably, Sophie Monk isn’t among them. For those who’ve tracked the band’s journey from manufactured mythology to memoir confessions, this omission doesn’t register as scandal so much as inevitability. Sometimes, the chapter just wouldn’t be written the same way twice.The lead-up to this reunion has drawn on the raw side of the story—Belinda Chapple’s memoir, in particular, leaves the beats of glamour and exhaustion plainly visible. Not many pop biographies get into the bruised knuckles of the industry, but here’s one that does: per diems that would barely buy a sandwich, manufactured rivalries designed to sell records, and an emotional toll that lingers long after the final note. It’s tempting to glance over these details, to swaddle everything in festival glitter and move on—but maybe that’s selling the magic short.Festivals, after all, are something of a small rebellion against linear time. Mighty Hoopla, fresh from years on the London circuit, lands in Australia like a rare comet—bringing with it Kesha’s glitter bomb anthems, Becky Hill’s precise pop production, Delta and Jess, and a cast list thick with old-school hitmakers. There’s a sense, in lineups like this, that pop is both forever young and a little battered around the edges; past and present bounce in the same bass line, and for a few golden hours there, it feels entirely sensible to believe in do-overs.But for Bardot, this isn’t just a shot at recapturing youth. It isn’t about airbrushing away the sharp bits or tidying up old rivalries for a tidy press release. If anything, there’s real power in showing the cracks—standing in front of a crowd that knows every lyric and letting the steam of memory rise up, flawed and shimmering. It’s oddly moving when a track that once soundtracked sleepovers or heartbreaks finds itself echoing along Bondi, backed by voices grown richer and rougher with age.Sophie’s absence lingers at the edge—a loose thread you sense but don’t tug too hard. Reunions rarely play by the script. Barring the odd reality TV fairy tale, most girl groups don’t come back as they were. These things are always messier, more tangled, and, in a way, more honest.The festival itself hums with a certain nostalgia-rush—organizers touting “pop fan’s dreams” in the marketing copy—but the scene at Hoopla is delightfully less calculated. Teen idols from a dozen yesteryears share crowded green rooms with new-gen hitmakers; a mosaic of fringe jackets, sequins, and well-worn Doc Martens. Time, for one day, bends and buckles. Rogue Traders and Jamelia sit side by side with the likes of Jessica Mauboy, and every so often someone in the crowd looks just as shocked as the artists to be back where it all began.Yet beneath the press of the crowd, there’s a quiet kind of reckoning. For longtime listeners, Bardot’s catalogue isn’t simple bubblegum—there’s the complexity of growing up with a band that outpaced its own legend, only to flame out before fans were ready. Pop, at its best, compresses collective memory into three-minute songs; it’s always haunted by what didn’t quite fit, or who left before the encore.Perhaps that’s why, on a stage lit by both nostalgia and resolve, Bardot’s voices sound fuller than before—not just as a throwback, but as a hard-won celebration. The choreography might have a touch more improvisation, a momentary missed step, or a laugh that bubbles up before a chorus comes back around. Rather than shying away from what’s changed, this reunion seems to lean right into the fact that the past can’t be reclaimed perfectly. That’s the charm.As the sun dips and the crowd tips forward in anticipation, there’s little doubt this is more than a retro sideshow. In these songs—dusted off but not diminished—there’s proof that pop power doesn’t need to come with innocence or simplicity. It can be all grown up, bruises and all, and still send shivers down a festival’s collective spine. Maybe that’s the real magic, earned over twenty-four years: girl power that’s tougher, sharper, and, for just a few minutes beneath the Bondi stars, completely and fiercely alive.