Paris Motel's first "proper" album proves the merits of an individual vision. Amy May has such a vision, and the talent to realise it. In the Salpêtrière almost defies description: indiepop fans should love it, but it's not indiepop; folkies should, too, but it's not folk. And admirers of orchestral pop might clutch at its delicious melodies, but May has little in common with the likes of Rufus Wainwright - there's nothing blousy or overstated here. This is carefully wrought, filigreed stuff: chamber folk-pop that sounds of its place (it could only be English) but seems to mix centuries with gay abandon. And in that disconnect lies its appeal: warmly familiar, yet intoxicatingly strange. In the Salpêtrière is absurdly delightful.