NZ Listener Interview - January 17, 2009

Anyone on here from NZ and able to grab this article?  It's not officially available online til Jan. 17, but hopefully some kind soul can scan it in before then.  

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An exclusive interview on the New York set of the second – and could it really be the last – series of Flight of the Conchords.
The full text of this article appears in the NZ Listener
(January 3-9 2009), on sale now.

Consider the joys of being Flight of the Conchords. A cultish show filming a second series on a major cable network in the United States, which must be like having a hit anywhere else. (It’s not actually, but we’ll get to that.) Your fans are engaged, artsy-crafty, inclining to spooky. They send you knitted wool animals that look like you. Bret’s Jesus beard and gentle tortured eyes; Jemaine’s vigorous sideburns and primate sensuality.

The full text will be available online on Jan 17, 2009.

Edited by Admin to add:

Flights of Fancy
by Tim Wilson

An exclusive interview on the New York set of the second – and could it really be the last – series of Flight of the Conchords.

Consider the joys of being Flight of the Conchords. A cultish show filming a second series on a major cable network in the United States, which must be like having a hit anywhere else. (It’s not actually, but we’ll get to that.) Your fans are engaged, artsy-crafty, inclining to spooky. They send you knitted wool animals that look like you. Bret’s Jesus beard and gentle tortured eyes; Jemaine’s vigorous sideburns and primate sensuality.

Fan art, too! Paintings and hand drawings and the like, enough to fill a small room at Te Papa. You write in LA, film in the People’s Socialist Republic of Brooklyn, and sometimes dream of Newtown. You go out dancing with Drew Barrymore; Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins drop by at one of your shows, dragged there by their kids. You used to be broke; now you’re not. People know you. They want to be funny with you. Sometimes, they want to be you. Recently, Rhys Darby, who plays Murray Hewitt in the series, was signing autographs outside a New York comedy club; a man in his 50s blundered through the crowd, shouting: “I’m the real Rhys Darby! I’m the real Rhys Darby!” He was, to use the appropriate phrase, forcibly restrained.

It’s like the theme from Cheers: “Everyone knows your name, everyone’s glad you came.” Put it another way, the Public Enemy way: “Ice Cube is down with the PE/now every single bitch wanna see me.”

“One of the funniest things I saw on tour,” says Jemaine Clement, “was this woman in the front row and she had a T-shirt with a womb on it and a fetus with glasses and sideburns, and my face.”

All of which goes to prove three points that on reflection are self-evident: 1) people are strange; 2) they form intimate attachments with characters on the boob tube; 3) they love a laff.

Flight of the Conchords, contenders for the best comedy album at the 2009 Grammys, are successfully mining the double-act seam of comedy, one that stems not from the tradition of speaking opposites (funny man v straight man – eg, Morecambe and Wise) but the setup in which similarity, and irony, loves company. The Blues Brothers and Cheech and Chong are part of this line, but neither expresses the minimalism, the texture of Conchord humour. Being a nerd. Being broke. Being useless with girls. It’s being and nothingness; some awkwardness but little angst. They’re like life, they’re like us, only they’re … different.

“Jemaine’s more staunch than me,” says Bret McKenzie. Slim and pale, he is slumped inside a large blue Swanndri. Call time for this morning’s filming was 5.30am, which is bad enough, and made rather worse if you’ve spent the night lying awake, worrying about sleeping through the alarm.

“When we deal with other people,” says Clement, “I’d expect Bret to be naturally diplomatic, whereas I wouldn’t like the person.”

“And that’s what we play off on the show,” adds McKenzie.

“It’s like a five-year-old and a three-year-old,” says show co-creator James Bobin, who has also worked with Sacha Baron Cohen, otherwise known as Borat. “Jemaine’s the five-year-old, and Bret’s the three-year-old. They’re both wrong, but the five-year-old thinks he’s right.”

McKenzie continues: “If we didn’t like the way HBO was doing something, even though we’d both agreed we didn’t like it, Jemaine would be the one who would probably say” – his fist thumps the table lightly – “we’re not doing it!”

So, the difference between them is good cop, bad cop?

“Mmmm, more like polite cop, less polite cop.” Would you like fries with that drollery, sir? We’re sitting at a French joint near their studio. It’s a working lunch, one of these multi-tasking monstrosities that people who haven’t had a day off for four months must endure, as must those who want to talk to them. The Conchords are being served up to the world’s entertainment press: your own reporter, a chap from the Daily Telegraph in London, a woman from Time Out, and a Swede who, in the car coming here, leaned across to me and asked, “Are these guys any good?”

Well, yes, they are. The lunch/interview, filled with badinage, is how one imagines an orgy might be: nervously energetic, special moves being ventured and withdrawn hastily, abrupt changes in partner, some fumbling and groping to get from one sequence to the next. And that’s just the journalists.

McKenzie, as you’d expect, is the fret-artist; Clement swings casually from riff to riff. They footnote one another’s sentences. Fracturing, rather than cracking each other up, seems to be the MO, although Clement’s laugh can rise to a goofy full-throated bellow. McKenzie seems to like to hang on just a little, to keep something in reserve. But it’s a free-ranging session of target practice, a flurry of bullseyes: America, themselves, their fans, New Zealand. They describe how they created the name for bumbling manager Murray Hewitt, by cross-fertilising the names of former All Blacks Murray Mexted with Norm Hewitt. Then they googled the name, which produced two people who both lived in New Zealand. McKenzie says when he was back home at Christmas time, he actually met someone called Murray Hewitt.

“Good-looking guy, was he?” deadpans Rhys Darby.

Conchord humour is fungible, as useful for mocking the conventions of the showbiz interview as it is for neutralising enquiries considered a little too probing. When the Woman From Time Out says, “Jemaine, didn’t you just have a baby?”, posing a very standard fishing-expedition-type question, Clement replies, “I don’t talk about that.”

“Well,” she stammers, “ … ah … maybe, congratulations on having a baby?”

“Maybe I won’t accept them … What for?” And the bellows come again.

Now their tales of poverty are of poverty recalled. “We were so poor that when we first went to Edinburgh,” Clement remembers, “we didn’t have anywhere to stay and we were hoping to bump into the one guy we knew. And we bumped into him, and there were already all sorts of people staying there for the festival. And I literally stayed in a cupboard with just enough room for a mattress. And Bret was staying in a room infested with wasps.”

McKenzie: “It was infested with wasps. I’d say, ‘Why are all these wasps in my sleeping bag?’”

“And one night they all came,” says Clement, “though fortunately I didn’t have to deal with it because I was in the cupboard.”

And these days? Swimming pools, movie stars? “Friends with swimming pools,” says McKenzie, pointing down the table to co-creator Bobin. “James has a swimming pool.”

“It’s a very little swimming pool,” demurs Bobin, “more the size of a bath.”

“Our life is different,” continues McKenzie. “You get picked up by cars at the airport, and driven to work. You get to stay in apartments with spare rooms.”

“Rather than staying in the spare rooms,” says Clement. Such is the front of the shop; here’s some background. Despite the magnitude of the US market, funny doesn’t equal money. Oh sure, the free-to-air mainstream network sitcom, such as Two and a Half Men, still offers lavish financial rewards, but if you imagine comedy as one long digestive tract, then far, far down the alimentary canal, the stand-up scene in New York, so the Woman From Time Out avers, is a bust. No one gets paid much (“much” being a synonym for zero, usually). But stand-up is the way you get on TV, which is where the moolah reclines, sunning itself on gilded trays. However, telly has certain paradigms vis-a-vis what’s acceptable and what’s not, which explains her next complaint: “There’s no edge to stand-up.”

“No one works blue?” I ask, using the only comedic term I know.

“Working blue doesn’t mean you have an edge.”

Um, no, no, it doesn’t.

If mainstream network telly is comedy’s breadbasket, HBO might be the oesophagus. Of course, the cable network that turned The Sopranos into a giant money-disgorging machine is television, but it’s constrained television. A few desultory enquiries among television professionals in New York reveals that HBO is cheaper than you’d expect, and reputedly stingy with back-end deals, DVD sales and the like.

Flight of the Conchords is shot very quickly, unlike most sitcoms. An episode a week, plus a song in the weekends. On the day we met, there were five shots to be done. Their studio was a converted machinist’s shop. It smelled of paint.

“We don’t have much more money for this series,” says executive producer Troy Miller, “but we have more confidence because we did it the first time.” More confidence, perhaps, but more pressure also. “It’s like a second album,” says Darby. Which may explain the report that this would be the last series of the show. Clement hedges. “Definitely, yes, this’ll be our last series, but if you’d asked me whether we were doing a second series in the middle of the first series, I would’ve said we’re not doing another one.” Question: does being not-poor (although likely not-poorer than you or me) prevent the effective rendering of a show about two impoverished slackers? “The characters, they’re kinda distant from ourselves now,” says McKenzie. “We know them so well we kind of drift off into a fantasy world -writing them.”

Earlier that morning, he and Clement were standing and crouching respectively in the actual detritus of that fantasy world. It was 8.30am, there were three cameras and about 15 people, milling around wearing sensible shoes, who also have – it appears – a discount account at North Face. The scene’s conceit was that co-star Mel (Kristen Schaal) had convinced Bret the best way to learn about a woman is to sift through her rubbish.

Several long trucks were parked nearby, including a 14-wheeler from Michael’s Mobile Suites, NY, with a series of cubicle-like dressing rooms with character names “Mel”, “Doug”, “Murray”, and toilets. The men’s urinal was blocked. A different trailer sat a little further down the road, one with larger doors, and the tags, “B-man” and “Big J”.

Mel/Schaal hands Bret a pair of rubber gloves. They continue to fossick.

Jemaine lurches from a dumpster, offering Bret an albumen-splattered carton. “Bret! Bret! She likes eggs,” he says.

Later, the crew relocate to the basement of a nearby church, which has been made up to look like a New York police precinct station. McKenzie is substituted by Rhys Darby. They run through a few takes of the scene, which involves the presentation of a business card, then Darby says, “I may improvise around the card.”

“Oh-oh,” says Clement, “the fireworks, he’s gonna release the fireworks.”

“I’m very slow to warm up,” says Darby, “like a singer … sewing machine.”

Later, he and Clement list the sewing machines of their childhood, including Janome and Bernina.

Then Darby sings an old jingle, “Bernina, Bernina, so easy, simple and versatile. Bernina, Bernina, what a wonderful machine.”

“Scenes getting funnier as you go,” writes the Man From The Telegraph.

A personal, private moment of reportorial cringing occurs during the lunch part of the lunch/interview when Clement orders the skate sandwich (“It’s a fishburger,” he says). The Woman From Time Out follows suit, as does the Man From The Telegraph, as do I. Then I think, “Did I really want a fishburger, or did I want one because Jemaine did?”

That’s the kind of distortion that fame produces in one’s human surroundings. “Being recognised on the street,” says McKenzie, “that’s more of a hindrance to writing material because of not being able to have an anonymous experience … because if you go to a party, you being there will slightly change the dynamic.

“I tend to not look around so much,” he says. Is that because people will try and catch his eye? “No, it’s because people come over.”

He eats precisely, fork facing down, cleaning his plate. When he finishes, his knife and fork are placed at the 12 o’clock position. Clement, by comparison, distributes the foliage of his salad promiscuously, leaving his knife and fork at 10-to-two.

Which sort of fits. Their differences are small, funny, in tiny crabbed printing.

The Conchords aren’t aimed at middle America, the belly wanting belly-laughs. It’s tiny massed Para Pools of bemusement, familiar and exotic, rather than a Clutha Dam of gags. Growing up, Clement liked Billy T James. Recently, he’s been getting into Fred Dagg.

“Frid Digg?” asks the Woman From Time Out. “How do I spell that?” She’s half-serious, half-performing. One of the show’s ongoing gags is about US incomprehension of the New Zealand accent. Once again, the Conchords’ presence has changed the dynamic of a moment.

But their comedy measures some of that awkwardness. The dryness, the shyness, the innocence. They’re drier and shyer than Brits. The aphorism about Old Zealand, “more British than British”, applies to this strain of wit. Over lunch, McKenzie, Clement and Darby joke about an imaginary superhero: “New Zealand Man … he flies long distances … he’s very humble.” They’re constantly asking American actors on the show to “make it smaller”, meaning no underlining, no capital letters warning the audience: “Joke approaching, facial muscles may tighten involuntarily.”

I had the fishburger, of course. Why not? It was silly not to. Anyway, Jemaine had one, and so did everyone else, so it couldn’t have been bad, and in fact it was quite nice. But the oddness of that moment was reinforced, as I replayed the interview tape, listening to the ever-so-slightly hysteric, ever-so-shrieky laughter of us hacks at even the most prosaic answers by the Conchords. Laughter is a kind of drug. It’s addictive. You want more.

It had to end. Their producer appeared, and they were saying goodbye and disappearing out the restaurant door with such alacrity that even the Man From The Telegraph muttered, “That was quick.”

Only, after they’d gone, there was one of those “Oh-hello-you-again” moments, when we found we were riding back to the show in the same production van. Everyone was silent for a moment. Brooklyn rolled by. McKenzie passed his iPhone to Clement. The display contained shots of costumes for a song they were filming called Freaky. The iPhone was encased in one of those rubber covers you can buy to minimise the shockwaves, should said iPhone be dropped. Very Bret, in retrospect.

“More freaky,” said Clement, handing back the prophylacticised phone. “They need to be more freaky.”

McKenzie talked about going back to New Zealand, about how buildings disappear in Wellington while he’s away, how everything changes. “It’ll probably be different,” he agreed. But then he will be, too. Comedy is a taxing business. On leaving them, I felt exhausted: exhausted by our facetiousness, by the strenuous hilarity of the hacks, by my own capering eagerness to add to both.

Putting aside the fact that one should never feel sorry for anyone with their own television series, there’s a kind of precariousness to what they do.

“You’re trying to make comedy,” says Clement, “but you’re also trying to make art, too … and y’know, you gotta do it in a time limit, and you just hope people don’t think, ‘How the hell did they get this on the air?’”

The second series of Flight of the Conchords will screen on Prime this year.

Jemaine’s vigorous sideburns and primate sensuality.

Jemaine's WHAT?  ... and his WHAT?!


BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHHA!

Your fans are engaged, artsy-crafty, inclining to spooky.

*taking a bow*

drunkagain wrote:They send you knitted wool animals that look like you.

IRENE!!!!  

step0nmi wrote:

drunkagain wrote:They send you knitted wool animals that look like you.

IRENE!!!!                  

I immediately thought of the sheeple too.    

And I love that whenever they discuss "fans," they're talking about us specifically, more or less.  

step0nmi wrote:

drunkagain wrote:They send you knitted wool animals that look like you.

IRENE!!!!                    

YES!!!!!!!
This is awesome  

step0nmi wrote:

drunkagain wrote:[size=200]They send you knitted wool animals that look like you.[/size]

IRENE!!!!                  

Irene, they must have loved the sheeples sooooo much to have discussed them in an article      

We are viry dedicated fans  

Yay Flighties!! I think the artsy-crafty applies to flighties and spooky is for people like the lips lady.

I told you they thought I was creepy. LAWLZ

OMG THEY ARE TOTALLY TALKING ABOUT IRENE'S SHEEP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

CAN'T WAIT TO READ WHAT THEY SAY!  

Why do journalist always feel the need to give a dig?

Irene they don't think you're spooky. I don't think you're spooky.

I want to read this article..the suspense is killing me.

ines wrote:Why do journalist always feel the need to give a dig? ...

Jealousy?  

Many journalists would looooooooove to have fans.  That's why they're always giving Malcolm Gladwell crap.  He has fans, and they don't.

1. I thought a Flighty was anyone who was a fan of FOTC.

2. What makes the "lip lady" more spooky than anyone else? She's not spooky.  She's nice.

SheWolf wrote:... 2. What makes the "lip lady" more spooky than anyone else? She's not spooky.  She's nice.

Jemaine's used words like "creepy" to describe fans more than once.  But I wouldn't know what crosses the line between devoted and spooky for him.


AND: I don't personally think the woman with the lips is creepy.  It takes a lot more than a photo of lips to creep me out.  That was just my theory about what the journalist meant by "spooky." I'm certain that's the sort of behavior she/he was referring to.

hellomyfriend wrote:

SheWolf wrote:... 2. What makes the "lip lady" more spooky than anyone else? She's not spooky.  She's nice.

Jemaine's used words like "creepy" to describe fans more than once.  But I wouldn't know what crosses the line between devoted and spooky for him.

I don't know what crosses the line either. They could think it's weird that people would wait for them after their shows... who knows. I'd like to think not though. Either way, they seem to appreciate their fans and are good sports.  

nikki78 wrote:

hellomyfriend wrote:Jemaine's used words like "creepy" to describe fans more than once.  But I wouldn't know what crosses the line between devoted and spooky for him.

I don't know what crosses the line either. They could think it's weird that people would wait for them after their shows... who knows. I'd like to think not though. Either way, they seem appreciate of their fans and are good sports.    

There's an entire thread about this issue, by the way.

*looking for it*

click ---> https://fotcfans.forumotion.com/t703-respect-entitlement-and-some-things-on-my-mind

It was probably one of the most interesting threads we've had.  

hellomyfriend wrote:There's an entire thread about this issue, by the way.

*looking for it*

click ---> https://fotcfans.forumotion.com/t703-respect-entitlement-and-some-things-on-my-mind

It was probably one of the most interesting threads we've had.  

Wow, I am absolutely fascinated by that thread, and I've only gotten to page 2!  Thanks for reposting it...I had never noticed it.  

Howdy folks, sorry I'm not around much, been camping. Just thought I'd drop in and let you know that I have the article in my hot little hand, and its fantastic. Teaser: "Jemaine is the 5 year old, and Bret is the three year old. The difference is that the 5 year old always thinks he's right." - James Bobin

I thought it might be longer though, it's like 2 pages. I hopefully will get it scanned soon, or even if I get attacked by boredom I might just type it up. Also if I haven't put it up by then it is online on the 17th.

Over and out  

ahhhh thank you so much!

i can't wait to read this interview

pukeko wrote:... "
Jemaine is the 5 year old, and Bret is the three year old. The difference is that the 5 year old always thinks he's right." - James Bobin ...

Jemaine's the bossy one and he always thinks he's right.  We'd get along well   LOL.

SheWolf wrote:Jemaine's the bossy one and he always thinks he's right.  We'd get along well LOL.

I actually think I'd get along with Jem better than I'd get along with Bret.

But Bret's the one I want to do nude tumbling with, so ...  

hellomyfriend wrote:

SheWolf wrote:Jemaine's the bossy one and he always thinks he's right.  We'd get along well    LOL.

I actually think I'd get along with Jem better than I'd get along with Bret.

But Bret's the one I want to do nude tumbling with, so ...  

Aww.. Bret seems so laid back and easygoing, but he also seems like he'd go out of his way to talk to you and make you feel comfortable.   Once you get to know them for "real" though, I'm not sure who I would get along with better. I wish I had that chance to find out!  

hellomyfriend wrote:

SheWolf wrote:Jemaine's the bossy one and he always thinks he's right.  We'd get along well   :-/ LOL.

I actually think I'd get along with Jem better than I'd get along with Bret.

But Bret's the one I want to do nude tumbling with, so ...  

On the surface they are both very nice but I want to know what they're like on a bad day, who's bitchier, etc.  I'm anything but bossy but I don't like to be bossed. And I may not always be right but I'm never wrong (  ) soo...plus both Jem & I are both Capricorns AKA stubborn old goats so I think we might head butt a bit but it would be sixy headbutting, of course.