Is Brett McKenzie’s ‘Songs without Jokes’ actually laugh-free? No, and it’s got charm to boot

REVIEW: Once upon a time, Brett McKenzie was one half of “New Zealand’s fourth-most popular guitar-based, digi-bongo, acapella-rap-funk-comedy folk duo”, Flight of the Conchords.

Gone are the days of the Hip-hopopotamus and Albi the Racist Dragon, The Prince of Parties and the Motha-ucker. Instead, McKenzie’s solo ambitions, with its homages to Steely Dan and Harry Nilsson, undiluted by Jemaine Clement’s academic study of awkwardness and cringe, arrive to the Auckland Town Hall Stage.

And so, Songs Without Jokes, and McKenzie himself, arrive freighted with expectations – not only because the album has been three years in the making (starting in pre-pandemic Los Angeles in 2020), but because McKenzie also claims the album’s debt is owed to heavyweights Steely Dan and Randy Newman.

In the Conchords world, McKenzie was the ‘straight’ man. The pitter-patter between McKenzie and Jemaine Clement was like putting Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to music; an absurdist, pop tart delight.

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Since the days of Monty Python, the premise of a straight-faced mug aghast to an increasingly absurd world has been played for laughs – HBO’s two-season cult classic knew this, as McKenzie and co-star Jemaine Clement took their songs to evermore absurd places. With his more absurd counterpart gone, how does the straight man fare alone?

“It’s not a comedy tour, but you will smile, you might even laugh in places, that’s ok, Bret’s a funny guy,” is how McKenzie’s website describes the evening, which seems to be written in fluent tall poppy.

How do you tool songs differently, when you’re not gearing it up for a punchline? How do you mimic the discordant, enduring appeal of greats like Steely Dan, whom McKenzie himself name-dropped in the making of this record?

While the title of the show is defined in opposition to Conchords – i.e. the marketing has made it all about what it lacks, versus what it boasts – the visuals and the 9-piece band itself are impressive and ambitious.

On the night itself, McKenzie’s coy style is still winning – he had the crowd in the palm of his hand. His laughter catches from the third row, and his comic interludes riff with the fluency of a showbiz natural.

I found McKenzie’s voice most convincing when it leans into its stranger rhythms, when he allows the Rufus Wainwright of it all to fully flare. His Conchords self – that winning, arch tone that still plays so well – still charms the crowd here, but it’s on tracks such as This World that the verve and sophistication of both McKenzie’s song and songwriting are allowed to fly.

His nine-piece band earned some of the biggest whoops of the night, as did McKenzie’s rendition of his Oscar-winning Man or Muppet song.

He’s not yet a crooner, despite the salt and pepper beard, though the tracks set in America suggest McKenzie wishes to explore that style.

The mid-show patter calls to mind his Conchords counterpart – even if there’s no deadpan Jemaine to rebuff Brett’s anxieties.

One especially vivid and imaginative piece is his enviro-pop anthem. While McKenzie’s songwriting about America – the lofty aspirations of LA, his sad missives to the city, and the trailblazers who have gone before him – dominate, the songs cannot distinguish themselves melodically or lyrically from the works they echo (e.g. America, Bruce Springsteen).

This is no Conchords season three, but McKenzie is still laugh out loud funny, and two or three of his new tracks are truly compelling.

Whether it’s combining his country lyrics with a 80s, Vangelis-esque score or exploring his funk-pop routes, McKenzie is a natural showman – his brass band in particular adding to the pomp and bombast of the evening.

Songs without Jokes has charming moments and bright, jazzy riffs that prove real crowdpleasers.

McKenzie left us laughing – but next time I’d like to leave with the music, not the jokes, ringing in my head.