Fanfarlo - Reservoir (2LP) - 10th Anniversary Black & White Vinyl

Fanfarlo’s debut Reservoir arrived in 2009 with the kind of confidence most bands only find on their third record. London roots, a Swedish lead voice in Simon Balthazar, and a small orchestra of friends around him. It was produced by Peter Katis, the Connecticut studio sage behind albums by The National and Interpol, and that choice matters. You can hear his ear for space and atmosphere all over Reservoir, the way lines interlock and bloom without turning foggy. It is indie pop with strings and brass, yes, but it moves with a clear pulse and a careful sense of scale.

The first thing that hits is “I’m a Pilot.” It rises on patient piano and clarinet tones before the band folds in around Balthazar’s steady vocal. He sings with a calm, almost hushed authority that keeps every swell grounded. It sets the template for the record. Fanfarlo build big feelings out of small gestures, never rushing the moment, always letting the arrangement do some of the storytelling.

What set the band apart in that late‑2000s wave of orchestral indie was how tightly the songs were written. “Luna” is a lean pop tune dressed in shimmering guitars and violin, not a chamber piece wearing a rock suit. “Comets” turns slow‑burn melancholy into a singalong. “Drowning Men” rides a persistent drum pattern, then opens like a curtain when trumpet and violin enter. You can trace lines to Arcade Fire or Beirut, and critics did at the time, but Reservoir has less of the cathedral and more of the cinema. It is sequenced like a film, with quiet scenes rising into set pieces.

The singles still land. “The Walls Are Coming Down” uses handclaps, violin, and a lyrical image that could mean politics, romance, or general existential dread, depending on the day. “Harold T. Wilkins or How To Wait for a Very Long Time” moves like a motorik folk song, and it carried them onto late‑night TV the following year with a zippy performance on the Late Show with David Letterman. Those tracks helped pull the album beyond cult status, but the deep cuts keep you living with it. “Ghosts” feels like a letter to an old life. “If It Is Growing” turns a question into a mantra. None of it sags.

Katis tracked the album at his Tarquin Studios in Bridgeport, and you can feel the room. The drums have air, the acoustic guitars sit next to the electric ones rather than fighting them, and the trumpet never blares. Leon Beckenham’s brass and Cathy Lucas’s violin are the two colors that define the palette, weaving around Justin Finch’s bass and Amos Memon’s drumming. It is the little arranging choices that make the record replayable, like a glockenspiel answering a vocal line or a sudden choral stack catching you off guard. Balthazar’s lyrics are generous with imagery but never fussy, so the songs carry meaning without weighing themselves down.

Reception was kind and curious. The Guardian and NME both heard the craft and ambition, while Pitchfork tipped its hat to the band’s hooks and textures. That respect has aged well. Reservoir sounds like a time and a place, but it does not feel stuck there. The melodies still glide, the choruses still sneak up on you.

On vinyl, this record comes alive in a way that flatters the band’s dynamics. The low end breathes, and the strings feel closer to your ear. If you are digging for Fanfarlo vinyl, Reservoir is the one to start with, and it sits nicely next to other Fanfarlo albums on vinyl if you want to trace where they went next. It is the kind of album you might stumble across while browsing a Melbourne record store, pull from the bin for the cover, then keep for the songs. If you prefer to buy Fanfarlo records online, keep “Reservoir vinyl” in your search, especially if you are hunting through sites that specialize in vinyl records Australia, since copies tend to move quickly.

What lingers after a dozen plays is the sense of care. Fanfarlo were aiming for songs that could fill a room without shouting, and Reservoir hits that mark again and again. It is warm, tuneful, and detailed, the sound of a band that knew exactly what it wanted to say and found the right way to say it.