In 2012, New Zealand comedian/songwriter Bret McKenzie stood on stage at the Academy Awards, an Oscar in his hands. Modestly he thanked the team responsible for helping his song, Man or Muppet, win ‘Best Original Song’. With his work in the comedy duo and hit HBO sitcom Flight of the Conchords behind him, here McKenzie stood at the brink of Hollywood fame – if he wanted it.
Fourteen years later, on March 27, as the musician awkwardly stepped through an array of instruments toward the front of the Factory Theatre stage, it was clear this promised life of glitz and glamour was not at all what he desired.
Slinging an acoustic guitar around his neck, giving the seated audience a comedic side eye, McKenzie sauntered into the title track of his 2025 record, Freak Out City. Upbeat chords lit up beneath sarcastic lyrics. And adopting a clownish character, he described the many ways people these days disappear down conspiracy rabbit holes.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, I can’t believe anything!” he proclaimed, as two backup singers joined him on stage. “I can’t believe what I see! If this could happen to you, it could happen to me!”
The song dipped into a slow psychedelic ballad, then rose again into a swinging jazz jam – McKenzie’s Wellington-based band gradually filling the space around him. Drums bounced, keys fluttered, lead guitar laughed, and harmonised horns hollered into the room. An exceptionally joyous beginning to the almost two-hour-long set.
Every following song, drawn from McKenzie’s two solo albums, his time with the Flight of the Conchords, and his newfound post-Oscar day-job as songwriter for films, held the same charm as the first. Whether slow, heartfelt Billy Joel like ballads, or 80s synth pop flares, each number contained sincere ruminations on identity, family, and society. Yet, presented with witty word play and over-the-top enthusiasm, even the most candidly beautiful song, What the Fuck Just Happened?, about weathering the current calamity of the world, was able to conjure laughter from the crowd.
Most impressive though was McKenzie’s authentic desire to connect with the people in the theatre. Between songs, he would go on long hilarious rambling tangents, telling stories about his family, his youth, and off-the-cuff observations of the room. And incrementally, in chapters, he would build the performance into a collaborative experience with the crowd.
First, he brought an audience member on stage to play a role in a faux musical. Then, he handed out blocks of chocolate to take a single square from and pass to the person next to you. And next he did a show-and-tell of items in a tote bag (second-hand records, a kangaroo egg cup, a money box and a toy robot) his bandmates had purchased from an op-shop earlier. These – other than the robot, which he tossed to a child in the front row – the band would sign and sell for five dollars after the show.
Finally, in a perfect combination of his infectious geniality and his savant songwriting talent, he asked the audience for a story to write a spontaneous song about. Ten minutes later – after some back-and-forth with someone at the back of the room – he had made some notes and began to perform. With slow chords on his piano, he summoned his band to swell around him. Leaning into his microphone, and with utmost sincerity, he delivered an up-tempo jam about contracting kidney stones and being broken up with via text.
“Small mineral deposits!” he wailed, saxophone circling, and drums building to a climax, “travelling down your urethra… Sweet relief. Sweet relief… Eureka!”
The room erupted – elated at the absurdity of the song, and amazed at how genuinely catchy it was.
It was a wonderful summation of how McKenzie wishes to spend his time in the wake of success. Writing songs, playing music with friends, and laughing in a room full of strangers.
