Andrew VanWyngarden sounds like one of Santa’s helper elves on acid and looks like a pubescent middleschooler whose parents let him stay out past dark. That’s probably why Euros love him—they are all pervo boy-lovers.
Which brings me to a shameful confession: I like MGMT. Not the sort of listen-ten-times-a-day, posters-on-the-wall, fan-on-Facebook obsession that would mark me as a power tool, but I do think a few of their songs are catchy. Of course, this is a closet affinity.
MGMT is the sort of band that—if you’re not careful—you listen to them a couple of times, start grooving, then decide to ear-rape your buddy with a favorite song.
“Dude, seriously,” you insist, “you’ve got to hear this track, ‘Time to Pretend.’ It’s like a psychedelic Thanatos Fixation with a hipster on synthesizer!” You pass the joint and press Play. VanWyngarden’s wieneresque voice coos:
This is our decision, to live fast and die young.
We’ve got the vision, now let’s have some fun!
The song does not elicit the desired effect. Your buddy accuses you of being gay. He reminds you that your musical taste is crap, and asks in exasperation, “What the fuck is a ‘Thanatos,’ anyway?” He hands the joint back and hits the door running.
Arriving home, he immediately goes to his computer and downloads the song. He listens to it hundreds of times before it’s worn out. Unlike you, he is wise enough to never tell his male companions.
With the door locked and headphones on, he embarks on a vicarious journey with the rock martyr archetype: the Hero who leaves his homeland to aquire the boons of fame, drugs, and coveted sex objects, ending on that wicked final note:
We’ll choke on our vomit, and that will be the end,
We were fated to pretend…
MGMT — “Time to Pretend”
2007
