Where a little awkward whimsy can take you

As if by decree, the fans who came to Town Hall in Manhattan on a Tuesday night to see the comedy-music duo Flight of the Conchords arrived in pairs, one with glasses and one without. Among them were two sisters, Janice and Erica Jim. Seated in a front row, Erica (with glasses) was holding a hand-painted sign, shaped like a hot dog, bearing the band’s name, while Janice (without) toted a bag of tacky sweatshirts. (Both items were elaborately specific references to the Flight of the Conchords television show.)

The sisters expected a more animated audience — maybe people in costume? — but were still excited to be among the more clued-in members of the crowd. “It’s a nice little secret,” said Janice Jim. “If you know about them, you know about them.” It was an appropriately low-key reception for a low-key band, reports Dave Itzkoff. Its two laconic, hirsute New Zealanders — Jemaine Clement (glasses, sideburns) and Bret McKenzie (no glasses, beard) — are emblematic artists for an age of diminished expectations. On their HBO series they play a novelty pop-music team striving to make it big — or medium, or small — on the New York scene, and they muddle through performances at tiny, mostly empty clubs and airport lounges. In real life they are big enough that their two shows at Town Hall sold out almost immediately, yet small enough that they can inspire ritualistic loyalty in their fans.

When Flight of the Conchords was first shown on HBO last summer, it was a modest hit, infrequently drawing more than 1 million viewers an episode. In a post-Sopranos, post-Sex and the City era, however, the hip but little-seen show delivered badly needed buzz for the cable channel. Unlike the recent HBO misfire John From Cincinnati, which drew more scrutiny (and more viewers), Flight of the Conchords was renewed for a second season, though no date has yet been set.

Similarly, the band’s new album, also titled Flight of the Conchords (Sub Pop), sold only 52,000 copies in its first week when it was released last month, according to Nielsen SoundScan. But measured by the ever-constricting yardstick of the music industry, that was enough to make it a success; Flight of the Conchords made its debut at No. 3 on the Billboard chart, placing it ahead of new releases by more, shall we say, omnipresent acts like Ashlee Simpson.

On Tuesday, following a stand-up set by Todd Barry, a comedian whose deadpan delivery was drier than an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, Mr. McKenzie and Mr. Clement took the stage, seated on stools, acoustic guitars on their laps. Their unrepentantly Caucasian efforts at funk, soul and R&B often pretended to address a specific topic or tell a single story, but wandered off on comedic tangents: a plea for social justice becomes a rant about the high cost of sweatshop-produced sneakers; a conversation between two ex-lovers veers into a critique of the Weekend at Bernie’s movies.

Between songs the two men bantered with self-conscious, Bob Newhartesque clumsiness, often about the clumsiness of their banter. (When Mr. McKenzie lamented feeling “out of kilter,” Mr. Clement asked, “What kilter are you usually in?”)

Though most of their music was created for the stage show, the songs came across more vividly on the HBO series, where they provided the soundtracks for music videos and fantasy sequences. (It’s hard to hear The Prince of Parties without thinking of the “Magical Mystery Tour”-style LSD trip that it accompanied on the television show.) Still, most audience members laughed along, even when they knew the punch lines that were coming.

“They’re not even trying, it’s so natural how awkward they are,” said Jennifer Gardiner, an appreciative fan (no glasses) who had come to the show with a friend, Crissi Bariatti (glasses). Both women were gazing adoringly at merchandise bearing the likenesses of Mr. Clement and Mr. McKenzie.

Nothing makes Flight of the Conchords more flustered than the opposite sex. When, in songs like “Ladies of the World,” they drool lustily over all manner of women — Caribbean, Namibian, amphibian — the facetiousness is obvious. Their outlook on male-female relations is more accurately reflected in the satirical slow jam “Business Time,” in which sex is merely a mechanical activity, something to do on a Wednesday night when there’s nothing good on television.

And sometimes sex is best avoided altogether. After boasting about their kissing skills, they performed “A Kiss Is Not a Contract,” which includes the lyric, “Just because you’ve been exploring my mouth/Doesn’t mean you get to take an expedition further south.”

There probably should be limits to the intimacy between the performers and their fans. During lulls between songs, when Mr. McKenzie and Mr. Clement were not bantering, audience members were relentless in shouting out titles of songs they wanted to hear, whether they were actual Flight of the Conchords tunes or the perennial Free Bird. When these requests went unheeded, they shouted the names of characters from the television show.

“Where’s Murray?” someone asked, referring to the hapless band manager played by the comedian Rhys Darby. “Murray’s not here,” Mr. Clement replied. “Murray’s doing a movie. But we’re here.” Apparently there are associates of Flight of the Conchords more famous than the band itself. “Murray blew up,” Mr. McKenzie said.