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ffiM
ANDREWVANWYNGARDENAND BEN GOLDWASSER
ARE TALKING INHUSHED, HURRIED
TONES TO A STUFFED
BORDER COLLIE.Crouching low, noses to snout, they take turns mumbling into a BlackBerry and
then holding it up to the puppls left ear. Their furrowed brows and tender pats
suggest concern. The puppy's state of mind, however, is inscrutable-sunglassesconceal his eyes, and his furry tongue danglesjauntily. A leafy sprig hangs from
the scarftied around his noggin. Perhaps he be tripping.Ten yards away, barricaded in ftont of Toronto's tony department store Holt
Renfrew for the Toronto International Film Festival kickoffbash,papatazziandcamera crews grow visibly anxious. They've been told that MGMI the party's
main attraction (and stars ofsponsor Converse's new ad campaign), are on theirway. "There they are!" yells a woman, pointing her microphone.
The 25-year-olds stroll toward the black carpet, possibly addled stuffed pooch
in hand. They stop in front of the logo-laden backdrop, and an onslaught offlashbulbs and questions begins-"How do you like Toronto?" "Are you going
to see any films?" "Are you excited to be here?"-none of which they answer.
Then, finally, a howling voice gets through: "Who are you with?""Chauncey," VanWy'ngarden replies, walking away.
The reporters are not amused. "!Vhat, no interview?" one man cries. "This
is ridiculous!" Chauncey and his handlers leave without another word to take
refuge in the store's makeshift greenroom. VanWyngarden removes the dog's
shades to reveal two amber plastic globes. "He's thinking about decorating his
ioftwith Lebanese furniture," he says to no one in particular, giggling.
VanWyngarden-the shaggy, Marc Bolan-esque dandy-is in good spirits,despite beingexhausted from the previous evening. MGMTperformed at aNewYork
Fashion Week party, complete with attendant Olsen twin, but he doesn't remember
actually playing. He does remember drinking a 1ot of Maker's Mark and "tryingrealiy hard to stay in control" but not throwing piliows at security or fleeing into the
streets or stumbling into a homeless shelter. "I guess I was pissed off at the party," he
says. He recalls getting thror.tm out of the shelter, whiskeybotde in hand, and beingpicked up on a sidewalk by two ladies who gave him water; he woke up at 5:30 inthe moming on their futon. Goldwasser-intense, dark-eyed, and mercurial-lookat his partner in disbeliefand sheepistrly offers, "This is not typical for us."
trVhat's considered rypical for MGMT is changing by the minute. The groupbegan as ajoke designed to annoytheircollege dassmates, then scored amajor-label
dea-l without even trying and playedlettermanbefore their debut album, Oracular
Spect(lcular-a spacey rycle of catchy psych pop steeped, sonically and aesthetically,
in a world they call "future '7Os"-was released. Since then, they've played every blg
festival around the world, toured with Radiohead, sold neariy 200,000 albums inthe U.S., andbecome unlikelyfashion-world icons. Atatimewhen aband's cultural
cachet is often exhausted before their album even comes out, MGMT's steady rlse,
a firIl ten months alter oraculafs release, feels suitably ariachronistic.Picking at the vegetables and hummus in the greenroom are the duo's longtime
fi:iends enlisted for their fve band: guitarist James Richardson, bassist MattAsti, and
drummerWill Berman. In the corner are three of Chauncey's pals----or, as specified inthe standard MGMT rider, an "assortment of puppies." Aside from playing a live
set, theyve all agreed, their two managers included, to moonlight as DJs at thepartv, taking turns in pairs. "I want to DJ with Ben," VanWyngarden says. He beams
goofily toward Goldwasser, who smiles shyly back. Goldwasser slides headphones
on and scours his laptop for a playlist. Pizza is ordered, drinks are made, and Kirsten
Dunst, who's been linked to VanWyngarden, flickers on a nearby TV.
54 NOVEMBER 2OO8 WWWSPIN.COM
ll
r"We were shocked," Goldwasser says. "Theywere the first people who thought
of us as a real band-we definitely didn t." After releasing the Time to PretendEP
in January 2005, they celebrated their graduation that summer by touring withfellow glam oddballs Of Montreal. But rather than capitalize on this momentum,
MGMT simply ceased to be-Goldwasser stayed in Middletown for six months
before spending a summer building eco-friendly straw-bale houses near theCatskills, while VanWl.ngarden landed in Brooklyn, lMng with a girlfriend and
only sporadically looking forjobs on Craigslist. By fall 2006, Goldwasser moved
to Brooklyn as well, but pursuing the band further wasn't a priority.Meanwhile, Maureen Kenny, an A&R rep at Columbia Recordsr was trying to
track them down. An intern had slipped her the EP, which Kenny couidn't stop
listening to. When she finally found them and brought them to Manhattan'sPeninsula Hotel for some old-fashioned wining and dining, Kenny recalls, "They
ordered the most expensive drinks-$24 Bellinis-and Andrew asked if they'dget fur coats. And then they e-maiied me a dream list of producers that includedBarack Obama and'not Sheryl Crow."'
Their sincere choice was Dave Fridmann, who sprhkled similar stardust on the
Flaming Lips. VanWyrrgarden and Goldwasser spent the winter of 2007 writingnew runes and recording demos, which Fridmann passed on to the Lips'Wayne
Coyne. ("We listened thinking, '\A/hat do they need a producerfor?"' Co;me recalls.
'They already knew what they wanted.') lVhen it came time to record at Fridmann's
Tarbox Road Studios in bucolic Cassadag4 New York, the duo played every instru-
ment, as they later did on the recently released 14-minute single "Metanoia." "They
have this twin-sryle communicationbetweenthem," Fridmann says. "Theirmusical
discovery is happening really quickly; they're just piowing through."
The process wasn't without bumps, however. Lines like "We're gonna keep you
on the run,/ We got the handshake under our tongue" on "The Handshake," one
of Oracular Spectaculqr's darker songs, betray reservations about even signingwith Columbia. "The handshake is the deal," VarrWyngarden says. "I was thinkingabout a mental asylum, when a patient tricks the nurse by keeping the pills underhis tongue, then spits them outwhen she walks away."
he day after the Holt Renfrew party, under steely gray skies, MGMTand company leave the hotel in a van for their gig at Toronto's VirginFestival, driving past clusters of locals with digital cameras who hope to
catch a glimpse of movie stars. \r'y'hen the guys pass, the looky-loos pointduelessly-the scragglyhak and half-open eyes make themseem famous.
After an hour, they reach a woodsy lake-island where the festival is under way; bythe timeMGMTpiaythe main stage, thelate afternoonsunis shining.Amanonstiltsin a red tuxedo and top hat chopsticks through the dense, largely female masses.
Vi/hen the band exits, the crowd screams like an encore is possible. (It is not.)Just after sunset, VanWyngarden and Goldwasser gather twigs to build a bonfire
in the backstage compound, the pressure of performing before some 20,000 people
giving way to casual mischief. Musicians venture out of their trailers and flock tothe flames. Sir Richard Brarson glides by as if he's just trimmed his sails. Then
Jason Pierce of Spiritualized approaches, and VanWyngarden's and Goldwasser's
eyes widen. Pierce says hello, tells them he loves their record, and asks about theirupcoming tours. \A/hen he bids farewell, they are vibrating like tweens who've just
coaxed a Jonas Brother to part with his purity ring. "Oh my God, he's our idol" says
55 NOVEMBER 2OO8 WWW.SPIN.COM
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