The thing about MGMT is that they’ve never made it easy for anyone—not for themselves, not for their fans, and certainly not for the record industry executives who spent the late 2000s wondering what the hell they signed up for.
Nearly two decades into their career, Andrew VanWyngarden and Ben Goldwasser are still moving at their own weird pace, releasing music that people either don’t understand until five years later or instantly latch onto like some divine transmission from outer space. Which, according to them, might not be far from the truth.
"Every now and then, the aliens deliver us a message," Goldwasser deadpans, talking about Loss of Life, the duo’s first album in six years. "And this time, they sent us ‘Bubblegum Dog.’”
Yes, Bubblegum Dog—a song so wildly unhinged it spent years rattling around their hard drives before they finally caved and finished it. "We tried to run away from it," VanWyngarden admits. "Like, ‘This can’t actually be a song, right?’ And then eventually, we realized… okay, we’re not going to escape this one."
The whole record, they say, was a slow burn, coming together over the course of the pandemic years in a way that felt unusually organic. Loss of Life doesn’t lean into their usual hyper-layered irony. It’s still weird, still psychedelic, but there’s a surprising openness—a willingness to drop the masks for a moment and just let things be earnest.
"We were joking that the album title meant MGMT was over," VanWyngarden says. "Like, we were going to quit music and become baristas or something." Instead, the album found its shape in songs about change, transition, and the way things slip away whether you’re ready for it or not.
"It’s not just about death," he explains. "It’s about any kind of loss—losing a version of yourself, losing a phase of life. Even having a child means mourning the person you were before."
And then, of course, there’s Dancing in Babylon, where VanWyngarden does the unthinkable: he actually says the words "I love you."
For a band that’s spent years layering their sincerity under mountains of absurdism, it feels like a moment of real vulnerability. "It was a challenge," he admits. "Like, can we do this without it feeling cringe? And then I realized, f*** it, just say it."
Goldwasser laughs. "There was a lot of self-awareness. We didn’t want to turn into one of those bands that takes themselves way too seriously. But at the same time, this felt like an important time to connect with people."
That balance—sincerity with a wink—shows up all over the record. On Mother Nature, they deliver a line so dryly self-aware it could be tattooed on their career: "And I understand your hesitation."
"It’s like, yeah, we get it," Goldwasser says. "We’re saying all these big, emotional things, but don’t worry, we’re still us."
They’re still the same guys who once turned major-label money into a career of deeply strange, occasionally confrontational art-pop. But they’re also guys who, 20 years in, aren’t afraid to make something that just feels good.
And yeah, they’re still on their own schedule. If this album doesn't fully click for people until 2030, they’re fine with that.
"Everything we do takes a little while to land," VanWyngarden says with a shrug. "I don’t know why, but that’s just how it works."
He pauses. "Maybe the aliens just have a delay."
Listen to the interview above and then check out the video below.
