Who
Would You Rather: Bret or Jemaine? At last night’s Flight of the Conchords’
show at Town
Hall New York, that fateful question seemed to be the main point of
contention between audience members, and the boys themselves. And the guy next
to me, and me. (What a hard life, huh?)
My personal dilemma: who
was Jemaine’s new hairstyle most reminiscent of? Greg Brady? Farrah Fawcett?
…but I’m getting ahead of myself.
I was lucky enough to have snagged
one of red velour-covered seats at last night’s sold-out concert, though I
wasn’t sure what to expect. As a fan of the HBO series, and a long-time
deliberator between whom I would rather (Jemaine. Definitely Jemaine.), I still
had never bought one of their albums. (Sorry, guys.) After the comedic stylings
of Todd Barry warmed up the crowd (everyone loves a good Trader Joe’s joke) the
lights went down, and the crowd’s energy went up. The hipster-esque crowd
morphed into a humming, fidgeting vat of pheromones. Thank God the AC was on
high or the place would have melted.
Then the Kiwi
digi-folk-paradist gods came onstage to thundering applause…looking just like
themselves. Hey, I’ll freely admit that I spent the first 20 minutes mentally
going, “Wow, Bret (“Brit”) looks just like he does on TV! Only maybe his teeth
are whiter. And his moustache is slightly more pronounced. And he’s not wearing
an 80s sweatshirt emblazoned with an owl or a deer or any other woodland
creature. And, he just said ‘fuck’! Oh my Lord, he just said ‘fuck’ again. Bret
on the show wouldn’t say ‘fuck’!” (Yes, I have an MFA.)
I’ll also freely admit that
for at least five minutes I thought a spider had landed on my head or back. I
was a little distracted.
But I was soon drawn back
in. The boys are as endearing live as they are on the show, and play basically
the same characters. Bret told tales of his imaginary wife and children, and
their children’s children, and their children’s children’s children…maybe you
had to be there. The crowd loved each and every song, from the good ol’
classics like “Business Time” to new songs featuring women fleeing relationships
via bus or coma. The theater was lush with soft Kiwi lust. The first woman to
shout out “I love you Bret!” caused a mild ripple of sighing agreement. More fans
shouted out to Bret, including the guy next to me who was about to jump out of
his seat. (And who kept stretching his neck with head-rolling exercises.
Understandable, but still disconcerting to see – out of the corner of your eye
– a pale, slack face rolling slowly toward you, Exorcist-like. I wanted to give
him a neck rub to make him stop it already, but I think he only would have
accepted such assistance from Bret.)
Of course, to a Jemaine
supporter such as myself, these Bret-oriented catcalls smacked of insult. I was
just about to shout my support of Jemaine’s body when another woman to the left
of the house did it better, and louder. Though it did come off like a sad
condescension, after the myriad pro-Bret catcalls. “We love you, um, too, Jemaine!”
Even when Bret had all the
men in the audience shout “We love you, Jemaine” … the taller and more myopic
Conchord still seemed a tad despondent. Only one person shouted Murray’s name; but wouldn’t we all have liked to see some
Ginger Balls?
The show went on, with
myriad audience requests – only five or so for “Freebird” – which Jemaine happily
obliged, singing the one line he knew. By the end of the night, the tide had
turned and women were screaming for Jemaine’s body. (His tight white shirt,
unbuttoned one daring button past what most American dudes allow, did show it
off in all its hulking glory.) After a two-song encore, the boys sadly
disappeared…despite their onstage banter (promise?) of hanging out and
receiving kisses from fans.
I would totally have had
them sign my breasts and get a pic. Just for you guys. Alas, we were all left to
wander into the night, singing their songs in our heads and carrying love in
our hearts…
Oh yes. And the one
remaining, vital question of the evening: how best to describe Jemaine’s new,
slightly longer hairstyle? I will grant you that he has dark hair, was sitting
in front of a black curtain, and that I am probably legally blind…but with my
smudged glasses I studied him. Oh how I studied him. The thick curls of Patrick Dempsey? The lush brunette glory of Greg Brady? The way the sides of his bangs flipped
back: a new (utterly masculine) take on the Farrah Fawcett flip?
But then it hit me, like a
vision of David Bowie a-glitter and a-glow, above my bed: Andy Samberg.
Wait till the new season.
You’ll see.
Unless he gets a haircut.
Or, I need new glasses.
— Nicole Ankowski
