Hed Case

by Lori Hill

Comedy "I think a rotisserie is like a really morbid Ferris wheel for chickens," says Mitch Hedberg (pictured). "I like dizzy chicken with a side of potatoes of some sort." The shaggy-haired comedian casts his eyes to the floor, shifts the microphone stand back and forth. "Wearing a turtleneck is like being strangled by a really weak guy. All day." Looking down again, he smirks a little. He knows that's funny.

Hedberg also knows delivery—whether it's musing that perhaps Pringles' original intention was to make tennis balls, or telling the story of how his death metal band thoughtfully changed its name from Injured to A Cappella while exiting a pawn shop. His indefinable drawl and lackadaisical tone make his punch lines, often preceded by a short beat, kill softly every time. Hedberg—who resembles an even more relaxed Donal Logue—treats comedy with the lazy athletics and shiftless aesthetics of Hacky-Sackers; it's the ultimate in slacker fun.

When paired with singer-songwriter and comedian Stephen Lynch for an ingeniously packaged tour of Comedy Central it-boys, Hedberg's low-key, unassuming style could well upstage Lynch's peppy schtick and boyish good looks. Lynch, taking more than a page from the Tenacious D playbook, sings about priests who molest, Dungeons & Dragons and a childhood friend named "special Ed" in expected ways, but his clever lyrics still elicit worthy laughs. It's due in no small part to his adept guitar work and spot-on comic timing. His sweet vocals and quick-change, demonic facial tics especially succeed in a song like "Grandfather"—a sadistic folk-rock ode to a dying loved one.

It's Hedberg, though, with his disarming, scuffed-up charm, that'll win over the Tower. He's like that friend you had in college who was secretly smarter than everybody else, piping up with deadly one-liners: "Whenever anybody tries to hand me a flier, it's kind of like they're saying, 'Here, you throw this away.'"

Mitch Hedberg and Stephen Lynch, Sat., Nov. 27, 8 p.m., $32.50-$35, Tower Theatre, 69th and Ludlow sts., 215-336-2000.