With record-industry sales slowly sliding into oblivion, it can't be easy—or all that desirable—trying to break into the music business these days. Get serious, gang: That trouble-free path to stardom has become a nu-MarioKart course, with peril coming at each turn and increasingly fewer reasons to keep going. These days, bands need more help than ever to make it past their first album.

Fortunately for the guys from emerging Brooklyn-based electro-lite duo MGMT (pronounced man-ij-muhnt), venerable producer Rick Rubin (UPDATE: Per commenter uncleduke, Dave Friddman, of Flaming Lips fame, did much of the heavy lifting on production) is backing them. But then, judging from their resulting debut, Oracular Spectacular, they may not want to become even almost famous—they certainly didn't tailor the record to be anything remotely "radio-ready." Nonetheless, on this respectable effort, MGMT's Andrew VanWyngarden and Ben Goldwasser will definitely discover a fan base, likely stemming from the hallowed halls of kindred rock spirit TV on the Radio.

On the album's super-ironic (they are from Brooklyn) "Time to Pretend," VanWyngarden drones, "I'll move to Paris, shoot some heroin and fuck with the stars. You man the island and the cocaine and the elegant cars." The song is such a brilliant yet backhanded tribute (faux-mage?) to Jim Morrison's ethos (that of living fast, dying young) that Goldwasser interpolated the keyboard lines from "Light My Fire" to close out their set on David Letterman's Late Night. It might be hard to imagine without hearing it for yourself, but it's not hard to be charmed by the song's savvy composition.

That's just the first (and best) song. Nine more follow—a maddening struggle on initial listens, but then finally an easy jump to see why the famously bearded savant Rubin would put such faith in an upstart. And it's clear that MGMT, rightly, bows at the altar of St. Rubin, who told the New York Times last year: "When [bands] play the songs for me, invariably the last two songs they've written are the best. I'll then say, 'You have two songs, go back and write eight more.'" For MGMT, like most other Rubin students, the guidance worked.

After a few iTunes revolutions, the record's whiny keyboards begin to sink in, particularly on "Kids"—a one-two stepper that channels the best of Teddybears STHLM and Shiny Toy Guns—and on "Of Moons, Birds & Monsters," where a voice reminiscent of a vintage Neil Young shivers over a rollicking rock-disco beat reminiscent of ELO grooves.

It all devolves into a truly bizarre mindscrew—Oracular always sounds beautiful, but the non-sequitur-leaning lyrics range from clever darts to, well, blanks. Can this type of music truly be enjoyed if you ignore what they're saying? Hey, it worked for Sting.