Pitchfork

On their fictional television show, Flight of the Conchords almost never play a song that's worth a damn-- except in their imaginations. Every time they get a gig, Jemaine Clement and Bret McKenzie take the stage and limp their way through the deadly "Who Likes to Rock the Party". But in their own heads, they're stars: deadly rappers, psychedelic princes, and unstoppable ladykillers. It's a good joke, and the Conchords spun it into a hilarious HBO series-- the best quasi-mockumentary since This Is Spinal Tap, and a sendup of the myth of the struggling band that came right when the whole music biz feels blue.

But the concept gets muddled, especially on their first full-length studio record. Where do they draw the lines between the real-life band, the band we see struggling on the show, and the band that the struggling band wishes it could be? They bill themselves as New Zealand's fourth-best novelty act-- so should we laugh at the songs, or with them? And their love of AM radio love songs shines true-- they thank Barry White in the album liner notes, probably not ironically-- but are we supposed to congratulate them for trying to do the same thing?

In other words: Sure they're funny, but are these songs supposed to be any good? Surprisingly, yes. In their live act-- which is rigorously documented on YouTube-- Bret and Jemaine play a folk/comedy duo, mostly with acoustic guitar. But for their first studio album, working with producer Mickey Petralia, they graduate to a soft-rock exotica crossed with pool-side world beat and cockblocked lounge. The Conchords have an ear for melody and they take their genre appropriations seriously enough, especially on the French (phrasebook) lyrics and musky harmonies of "Foux du Fafa". But even with synths, percussion, and the occasional horn player, the arrangements enhance the core duo instead of supplanting them: hip-hop satire "Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenoceros [ft. Rhymenoceros and the Hiphopopotamus]" adds beats, but most of the rhythm comes from the guitars.

This approach also keeps the album low-key, almost too much so. "Boom" had more oomph in the television version-- and all the dancing low-wage sign-holders in the video didn't hurt-- and when they got to the old chestunt "Robots", they sound like they've sung these jokes a couple times too many. (Stick with the live version, on last fall's EP.) They hit the highest energy level on the closers, "Business Time" and "Bowie", and while the guys are commended for not trying to ham it up, it's a strikingly mellow album for a comedy record. Assuming, that is, that it's mainly a comedy album and not just an indie rock record that's funny.

And oh yeah, it is really funny. Even the jokes that try a little too hard-- like half of "Inner City Pressure"-- wear well after several listens. "Most Beautiful Girl (in the Room)" and "Business Time" are still the highpoints, both true to life and totally hilarious: "You're so beautiful, you could be an air hostess in the 60s...you could be a part-time model/ But you'd probably have to keep your day job." And series fave "Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenoceros" matches the stumbling charm of the TV version even without the breakdancing.

Some nitpicks: They probably left off one of your favorite songs-- say, "Bret You've Got It Going on", or "Mermaids," or for that matter, "Who Likes to Rock the Party". And they included a couple, like "Leggy Blonde", that flounder without a story to set them up. But it's fair to guess that most of the listeners already know all the episodes by heart. The hardest-working duo in novelty finally made it to the studio, but they're still saving their old routines for posterity. And they're still working towards the pop craftsmanship-- and raw, irresistable sex power-- that they dreamt about on the show. We'll see what happens next year, when the series comes back; after all, they have a whole season's worth of new material to write, and the sky is still the limit.