Bret McKenzie is an Academy Award Winning songwriter, composer, comedian, writer, entertainer, and former part-time condom from Aotearoa (New Zealand).

He is best known for being the shyer half of Flight of the Conchords, New Zealand’s fourth most popular comedy rock duo, and for being the compositional mastermind behind The Muppets, which won him an Academy Award and the right to call Kermit for guest appearances at his shows, as he did earlier this month in New York City while touring his new acclaimed album, Songs Without Jokes (a very funny, semi-accurate title).

As one might guess, someone of McKenzie’s comedic brilliance and impeccable sense of subtlety couldn’t help but slip one or two punchlines into the album, but those punchlines are largely outshined by the sincerity, style, and vulnerability found on each track of this body of musical work. From honky-tonk to rock and roll, Songs Without Jokes has a texture and a time for everyone. On a song like ‘This World’, a simple but elegant arrangement of horn, piano, and voice lamenting the world’s being on fire (but without dramatic overindulgence) sounds a bit like pessimism disguised as optimism, whereas ‘If You Wanna Go’ is groovy and approachable, referencing the themes from the time in which the album lives—the velvety late-70s to the beige and brown early-80s.

Together, Songs Without Jokes is an impressive, varied, unexpected album by an accomplished comedian navigating the strange, unmapped path toward more ‘serious’ artistry. Like an idiot, I hit record in the middle of a very serious, very deep conversation we were having about the American buddy cop sitcom/New Zealand smash hit, 1986’s Sledgehammer, so that’s where we are jumping in.

David Rasche? The guy from Succession?

Yeah, he’s been in all sorts of stuff. He’s a brilliant actor, but this was a comedy role. A sort of broad, stupid police comedy. Anyway, that was a funny example of how New Zealand was isolated and connected in different ways. I grew up before the internet, you couldn’t just look things up, and since Sledgehammer was on primetime and from America, it was the biggest show in New Zealand, we just presumed it was the biggest show everywhere.

Well now that you’ve seen the rise of the internet, how has that changed New Zealand’s cultural frame?

Well, it’s interesting because when I was a kid, America was cool. Basketball was cool. American media was cool. And then when I was like a 20-year-old, there was a sort of stepping away from America and a sense that New Zealand was cool. When I was a little kid, it wasn’t cool to be from New Zealand, you know? If an American came to visit, they’re cool. Then in my twenties—that’s the late nineties to two thousands—New Zealand got this sense of pride about itself, which is when the internet started to take off. Now, it’s very similar to everywhere else because everyone’s so connected. The one thing that’s changed is kids now have American accents in New Zealand because they watch so much American Media—

Too much Sledgehammer.

Yeah, just way too much Sledgehammer.

Listening to the music you made in Flight of the Conchords, it is very multi, whether it be multi-genre or multi-instrumental, it’s just all over, whereas your new album sounds very focused and a bit like Wings.

Oh yeah, yeah. We reference some of that stuff quite a bit in the studio. We added these synthesizers thinking about when Paul McCartney was doing Wings and started adding synths and seeing how that could work in a rock band, but the melodies are also really catchy. He’s a very melodic songwriter.

Were you listening to a lot of Paul growing up?

Yeah, some. Growing up I loved James Brown. I was in a band and I was the drummer and I spent all my time trying to play funk breaks. That was what I was really into as a teenager. At the same time I was into Leonard Cohen, but more of his sort of slightly more comedic songs, I guess. You know, the little ones where the production is like a Cassio tone and him singing over it. Even as a teenager, I thought that was cool. It’s funny because I’ve spent a lot of time working with Cassio tones. In Flight of the Conchords, we were always making our own beats and messing with little drum machines.

You never had a punk phase?

I was really into the Pixies. I don’t like a lot of stuff like the Pixies, though, but somehow Pixies made it through. Pixies was unusual for me. I like most music, but I never really got into rock. Does that make sense? Like, Pixies is one of the rare hard rock. Hard rock, I never really connected with it.

You make rock music.

It’s not very rocky though, is it? It’s very soft rock. I mean, it’s in the very soft end of rock.

Yeah but just because you throw ‘soft’ in front of it doesn’t make it not rock. Maybe lounge?

Yeah. Lounge rock, lounge rock. You’re right. I’ll take that.

When you pitched this album, how did you describe it?

I didn’t really know what I was making until I came out the other side. I went to the studio with the producer Mickey Petralia. He did Conchords and Muppets and everything. We just thought we’d see what happened. We didn’t go there going, ‘Okay, we’re gonna make a Soft Rock album.’ In some ways, this is the first album I ever really made.

What? You have an extensive discography.

I mean, Conchords have made albums, but they were more like compilation albums of songs we’ve collected. Like Multi-Genre albums. This album is still pretty eclectic, but I think maybe more organized and focused.

It’s funny that you mention Leonard Cohen because some of your songs are built a bit like, I’m Your Man, where the synth layer is strong, but rather than have it be the lead, the song itself is built around it.

(singing I’m Your Man synth melody in unison) Ba ba, ba ba ba ba ba ba. Yeah. So, it’s like the song’s written on a guitar or piano, but the synth layer gives it this texture. That would’ve been a string section in the sixties, but in the eighties, it was a synth layer.

I like that Songs Without Jokes is organized, but pushes the bounds of that organization. Each track makes sense with its peers but could also define a genre album on its own. One can get like a little bit more hard rock. Another one can be just a dance track.

I was self-conscious about how the record is eclectic and genre jumps a little bit. Then at the same time, I thought, ‘Oh, maybe this is actually going to be alright.’ Friends would listen to the album and tell me they liked how it jumped, it kept it a bit exciting. I also think that people are more able to cope with things changing like that now. It’s less of an issue than it would have been 20 years ago.

Why do you think that is?

People don’t hit speed bumps like they used to when they’d listen to a whole album all the way through, because people often don’t listen to whole albums anymore.

Oh, yeah, they just play the most popular songs on Spotify. How does this affect your live performance?

Yeah. I was thinking about the live show and how it moves around a lot. I do some comedy songs and I do a bit of this comedy banter between me and the audience, so there’s a lot more than just the songs. The drummer described it as a variety show in a way. What’s fun is the audience doesn’t quite know what’s gonna happen. I’m kind of feeling that out, though. We could do a whole set of just our songs, but that might be less appetizing, or less exciting, I think, for the audience.

Yeah, the bands I’ve spoken to have all said that holding anyone’s attention for a full 45-minute set has become a bigger challenge.

I think often at gigs, you sit back and you start enjoying the vibe, kind of drifting off. Check your phone, maybe. Look around at the people next to you. I’ve been trying to think of how to make things a little more exciting than just us on a stage playing songs.

What’s the strategy?

That’s my new buzz is what I’ve been doing with the live show. I do this thing, kind of like doing a collab where I write a song with a volunteer from the audience. So halfway through the show, I ask for a volunteer who wants to write a song with me. They start telling me a story about their life and then up turning the pieces into a song.

Are you really doing it? Or is it like an industry plant?

No, it’s real. It’s quite terrible. It’s pretty stressful for me, but it’s really exciting for the audience ’cause you cannot sit there and you can’t zone out when that’s happening, you need to pay attention to what’s being said in order to get the song that’s being made.

What do you mean?

At one of the gigs, it ended up being a song called ‘Australian Vampires Make Better Lovers’ based on this woman whose partner was in Australia, and they like dressing up as vampires.

How are those the two things that you know about this person?

Well, I talk to them and I guess, and I did it when I did it in New Zealand. Someone got up and goes, ‘I want a song about my car. It’s a love song about my car,’ and we went, alright, we can do that, but this guy had, like, a whole thing prepared. He was crazy. He had a whole song written and he was ready to go. He was like, ‘No, the chorus should be like this! It should be an F Sharp!’ He had a key. I was like, What? Who are you?

This is amazing! Are you saving these? Can I hear them?

Yeah. It’s cool. It’s great. Someone in the band suggested that we make an album at the end of the tour. That’s a pretty cool idea. We’re recording them, so we have the little demos. It would be a publishing nightmare.

So your album is called, Songs Without Jokes, but there are some jokes.

Yeah, there are some jokes. I’ve started to figure out how to describe that. I named the album that to sort of lead people into what I’m doing, what I’ve made so that they immediately understand, but some people think that is a joke. But then live is songs from the record, songs with jokes from before the record, and then new songs, then some jokes without songs, you know. It’s a bit funnier than I initially anticipated.

Are you okay with that?

Yeah. I mean, after doing Conchords for such a long time, I’m comfortable doing banter and being funny. I mean, the audience almost expects it. This is sort of a new bit for me, singing songs without jokes in it. No punchlines. That’s different.

How has your transition from comedy been? I can’t think of very many comedians who transition into serious musicianship and I imagine it’s because of how daunting that is.

Well, when I went into the studio, I found that I felt very vulnerable, but I got more comfortable with that. I’m growing more comfortable with it. I kind of love being able to shift gears and go from maybe a strange, funny song to a really heartfelt, sincere song. I love that as a landscape for a live show. It does take a bit of navigating, though, because I need to lead the audience with me. They come to the show and they don’t really know what’s gonna happen. It’s just about guiding them through it. But the audiences have had a really positive response. They really enjoy it.

Have any audience members been like, ‘what the fuck is this? Where’s the Hiphopopotamus?’

Nah, there hasn’t been anything like that. There are some comedians who are pursuing serious musicianship, but it doesn’t happen often. Do you know Tim and Eric? Tim has done a few albums. Hannibal, too.

He doesn’t make music, does he?

Oh, yeah, he’s given up comedy. He’s a rapper.

He must be having such a hard time with that.

It is hard because the audience knows you as one thing and they’re comfortable with that. In a way, it’s like I’m starting again, which has its challenges, but it’s also really invigorating and refreshing because people are discovering the music and I’m finding new fans coming from a different place. It can be hard, but I love writing songs. I love making music. I love playing with the band. Those parts make me feel like I’m doing the right thing. In the past—with all my projects, really—I’ve always done things I like doing. The things we did with Conchords, we found it funny. With other projects, I always liked whatever song we were making. I think it’s important—especially for creative people—to really love whatever they are doing and to be passionate about it, and I am.