ANDREW

VANW YNGARDEN

AND BEN GOLDWASSER

ARE TALKING IN

HUSHED, 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 puppy’s left ear. Their furrowed brows and tender pats suggest concern. The puppy’s state of mind, however, is inscrutable—sunglasses conceal his eyes, and his furry tongue dangles jauntily. A leafy sprig hangs from the scarf tied around his noggin. Perhaps he be tripping.

Ten yards away, barricaded in front of Toronto’s tony department store Holt Renfrew for the Toronto International Film Festival kickoff bash, paparazzi and camera crews grow visibly anxious. They’ve been told that MGMT, the party’s main attraction (and stars of sponsor Converse’s new ad campaign), are on their way. “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 of flashbulbs 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,” Van Wyngarden replies, walking away.

The reporters are not amused. “What, 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. Van Wyngarden removes the dog’s shades to reveal two amber plastic globes. “He’s thinking about decorating his loft with Lebanese furniture,” he says to no one in particular, giggling.

Van Wyngarden—the shaggy, Marc Bolan–esque dandy—is in good spirits, despite being exhausted from the previous evening. MGMT performed at a New York Fashion Week party, complete with attendant Olsen twin, but he doesn’t remember actually playing. He does remember drinking a lot of Maker’s Mark and “trying really hard to stay in control,” but not throwing pillows 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 thrown out of the shelter, whiskey bottle in hand, and being picked up on a sidewalk by two ladies who gave him water; he woke up at 5: 30 in the morning on their futon. Goldwasser—intense, dark-eyed, and mercurial—looks at his partner in disbelief and sheepishly offers, “This is not typical for us.”

What’s considered typical for MGMT is changing by the minute. The group began as a joke designed to annoy their college classmates, then scored a major-label deal without even trying and played Letterman before their debut album, Oracular Spectacular—a spacey cycle of catchy psych pop steeped, sonically and aesthetically, in a world they call “future ’70s”—was released. Since then, they’ve played every big festival around the world, toured with Radiohead, sold nearly 200,000 albums in the U.S., and become unlikely fashion-world icons. At a time when a band’s cultural cachet is often exhausted before their album even comes out, MGMT’s steady rise, a full ten months after Oracular’s release, feels suitably anachronistic.

Picking at the vegetables and hummus in the greenroom are the duo’s longtime friends enlisted for their live band: guitarist James Richardson, bassist Matt Asti, and drummer Will Berman. In the corner are three of Chauncey’s pals—or, as specified in the standard MGMT rider, an “assortment of puppies.” Aside from playing a live set, they’ve all agreed, their two managers included, to moonlight as DJs at the party, taking turns in pairs. “I want to DJ with Ben,” Van Wyngarden 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 Van Wyngarden, flickers on a nearby TV.

THOM BRO WNE JACKE T, THOMBROWNE.COM; DIOR HOMME SHIRT, DIORHOMME.COM; GUESS JEANS, GUESS.COM.

ON GOLD WASSER PAUL SMI TH COAT, PAULSMITH. CO. UK; PRADA SHIR T, PRADA.COM.