What a strange and singular album this is. Recorded in 1983 by one Randall Wulff – a man who looks like a humanoid from Blade Runner, played the stock market, paid for the sleeve image for his vanity album with a cheque that bounced, and now can't be traced – L'Amour is so private it sounds transgressive, so diaphanous it might echo the sighing of ghosts. Every song comes across as a coded declaration of passion for someone inaccessible and intangible. Lewis sings in a trembling murmur as though searching for a portal back to 1960s Greenwich Village; there are hints of Bob Dylan in his chewier mumbles, and of Karen Dalton in his elusive softness. His guitar and piano playing is delicate to the point of hesitancy, with notes tiptoeing around each other, and tendrils of melody unfurling in unexpected directions. And on every song there's a droning synthesiser, apparently played by an extraterrestrial in another room, with scant regard for what Lewis is doing. The closer you listen, the more unsettling – and yet enticing – it all sounds.