Has Borat killed stoner humor? On Friday night at Madison Square Garden, Tenacious D’s gentle jokes about Sasquatch and Colonel Sanders seemed dated compared to the cringe-inducing sting of Borat’s cross-cultural blunders.
In their affectionate spoof of classic rock, the actors Kyle Gass, left, and Jack Black performed as the acoustic-folk metal duo Tenacious D on Friday at Madison Square Garden.
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This acoustic folk-metal duo — the actors Jack Black and Kyle Gass — has developed a cult following over the last decade with its affectionate spoof of classic rock. Mr. Black and Mr. Gass play slackers deluded that they are the “greatest band on earth,” but they can’t even impress open-mike-night crowds with their bombastic shred-fests about dragons and groupies. Still, they and their sole fan, a burnout named Lee, remain convinced that Who-sized superstardom is one rock-off away.
That Tenacious D actually had a gig at the Garden (which was respectably full) seemed ripe for a running joke, or at least some vainglorious gloating. Instead the duo mostly reinterpreted their recent movie, “Tenacious D in the Pick of Destiny,” as an Off Off Broadway musical, complete with a set that resembled Mr. Gass’s filmic living room (couch, keg, bong). Without the elaborate sight gags and Meat Loaf cameo, it was far less funny. And there was little of the spontaneous banter and audience interplay that made past shows so endearing. They were too busy hitting major plot points, from a car chase (with cut-out props) to outrocking the devil during “Beelzeboss (The Final Showdown).”
The first half of the show was mostly acoustic, opening with “Kielbasa,” from the duo’s self-titled debut album (2001). After a long, flat video break (Tenacious D goes to hell), they returned with the expletive-ridden “Kickapoo” and an electric backing band: “Colonel Sanders” on drums, “the Anti-Christ” on double-necked guitar and “Charlie Chaplin” on bass. Are Charlie Chaplin gags relevant to a younger audience used to squirming through YouTube self-embarrassments and episodes of “The Office”? Hard to say, but there were more empty seats by the time Mr. Gass quit the band temporarily in one of the band’s running gags.
Like Borat, the anticomedian Neil Hamburger, the evening’s opening act, has a timely knack for baiting a crowd and confounding expectations. A hunched lounge lizard with a combover and a dour expression, he told outdated (and offensive) jokes about the Jackson Five and Jar Jar Binks with a painfully inept delivery. But he was too nasty and vain to be pitied. Soon the crowd erupted with roaring, nonstop boos. “Oh, come on — I have cancer,” he protested.
The alter ego of the avant-garde musician Gregg Turkington, Neil Hamburger has striven to be America’s least-funny funnyman since the early 90s. (On “Great Phone Calls,” a 1992 compilation of prank calls, he tries to persuade comedy club employees to dump their headliners and book him instead.) He ingeniously underscores the latent superiority complex of the paying customer. He denies people the right to laugh, earning their ire and disgust instead.
Recently Mr. Turkington has received some mainstream attention, appearing on “Jimmy Kimmel Live” and, very briefly, in “The Pick of Destiny.” But it is safe to assume some hecklers weren’t in on the joke Friday night. When an elderly usher sat a couple, he warned, “The show already started, but you’re not missing anything with this guy — yeesh.”
Mr. Turkington, nearly drowned out by jeers, threatened to tell 10 more jokes. But when the entire arena seemed to chant an unprintable insult, he finally called it quits. “Good night,” he said. “I hate you all.” It was probably the greatest night of his career.
