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