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A profile of your average Maybellines fan: thick glasses, cardigan sweater, scuffed-up thrift-store shoes, a back pocket full of half-melted candy, and a record shelf stacked with 45s by Stereolab, Tiger Trap, Heavenly and the Modern Lovers. The Maybellines stick Casio organ tones into buzzy guitar riffs like cards into the spokes of bicycles; chirpy melodies bop back and forth across wind-up-toy rhythms. Their song topics are indie-pop standard issue — girls, boys, books, dreams, girls, boys — but the delivery is so untainted by attitude or cool that it feels as fresh as the first rush of puberty. Chatfield Holiday just goes to prove what this band’s following has known all along: The Maybellines are to pop what Ivory is to soap.
