Lucifer Is a Flower is the final release by Black Devil Disco Club, a project helmed by French musician Bernard Fevre that began with a singular 1978 electro-disco oddity and was revived several decades later, when the world was finally ready for it. Starting with 2006's 28 After, Fevre released new Black Devil albums that subtly tweaked the original release's sound, itself essentially six variations on the same track -- a little dubby echo here, a slightly faster tempo there, but mostly metronomic drum loops, cosmic synths, and cryptic, fluttering vocals. He deviated from the formula with 2009's The Strange New World of Bernard Fevre (a beat-heavy revision of one of his pre-Black Devil library albums) and 2011's Circus, a surprise venture into pop featuring high-profile guests like Nancy Sinatra and Afrika Bambaataa. Well into his seventies, Fevre bows out of the music industry with one of his most playful efforts, yet there's still more than a touch of the spookiness that made the original Disco Club so compelling. Opener "Sweet Sins" is a simmering mid-tempo lament featuring Fevre's haunted croon during the verses, then one of his signature "doot-doot-dee-doot" choruses, and a bit of bugged-out analog synth noise. While not quite as discotheque-ready as the early Black Devil material, this track is as close as Lucifer gets to its ominous hall-of-mirrors vibe. From there, parts of Lucifer are almost aggressively goofy. "Berliner Atoll" is loaded with preset percussion and fake whistles, with a bizarrely pseudo-country feel to its wavy, twangy synths, as well as passing moments that bring to mind Donna Summer's "I Feel Love" and Snap!'s "The Power." Further silliness abounds on "Caresse un Opossum," with absurd lyrics to match its clunky robo-disco rhythm, and the breezy business boogie of "Bossa Snooze," which could almost work as background music piped into the lobby of a tropical island resort. A few tracks offer a glimpse into the lonely life of an elderly synth boffin. Beneath its bubbly tones and soft bongo beat, "Synth Is Not Love" expresses Fevre's isolation at the expense of his devotion to music. "Ah Am Alone" is more upbeat, with fizzy, summery synths and a dash of vibraslap, but there's still a sad undercurrent to Fevre's modulated vocals. "Devil Charmed" is a percolating tale of bittersweet seduction that manages to sneak in an accordion solo. As strange as the album's combination of whimsy and wistfulness might seem, it makes for one of Fevre's most varied, oddly introspective works, ending his career on a good note.