Chamberlin are pretty titties bro. Not like pretty as in beautiful titties bro, but like darn close to being titties as actual titties are titties.
There's this mature adult vibe shit going on with these fuckers, and it's not like I'm calling them out as adult contemporary or anything like that, but it just seems, well, grown up. Opening track Thief is this fucking gorgeously calm and layered foursome between Train on the reefer, Coldplay wearing looser fitting clothes, Bon Iver gargling discount bourbon, and as nuts as this might fucking sound, but Seven Mary Three playing a bonfire booze party where everyone's doped up on liquid G. The vocals have that southern rock band twinge, while inside that the choruses have that airy distance accompanied by Mazzy Star's slide guitar shit, and I don't think I could name drop anything else because while it borrows from so much that's familiar, it's so fucking deliciously original and perfect I'd rather Fuck a tepid cantalope than consider life before hearing them.
Chamberlin have one other trait that I've only ever heard from Band of Horses in that they seem destined for car commercial success of course, but they have to have a fucking room full of plaid. I'm not even talking the dirty plaid shit you think of when thinking of plaid, and I'm not talking dad's flannel longjohns bro bro, I'm talking form fitting plaid button downs with those shiny snaps instead of those pesky fucking buttons bro.
I think what I'm most infatuated about when it comes to Look What I've Become is that while, yes, it sounds mature as Fuck, it's got these moments of near anarchy. These moments aren't completely obvious, and they're just barely restrained enough to appeal to those audiences that wear crocs, but with someone as big of a shitbird as I am, I can hear it, these muthafuckers know how to fucking beat the fucking shit out of their instruments if given the chance.
The 'guitar solo that could', during the latter parts of Jealousy, are all well within the constraints of pop rock music producers, but towards the end there, this muthafucker was on the verge of kicking the producer in the fucking throat for some breathing room. I can fucking feel it, these cocknecks are insane, they just so happen to take direction pretty fucking well.
The songwriting couldn't be more accessible, and while it might be on the tamer side of shit, the potential with this band is ridonkulously cockworthy. While the word crossover is on my tongue, I don't really see what they would be crossing over from because they're more Americana than rock, but a shit load more electro rock than pop, but there's also a lot of pot sitting broken up in piles on the coffee table. So I guess I'll have to wait until they come to Chicago and invite me for bongs and burritos to determine what kind of band they actually are.