This Springtime Carnivore record that Greta Morgan released in the last parts of 2014 didn't come out of nowhere, but it kinda did catch us by surprise. It didn't surprise us that it was good, but it surprised us that it was SO fucking good it hurt. Over the last few years, one of the most vogue things to do has been to record an album of lo-fi beach jams that's supposed to get beloved just for the beachy parts and because it feels so lusciously aloof. There's a strange malaise to most of these records. They're meant to be taken in as little slices of sunshine, as that part of the sunbathing before is becomes a burning, but the wavy parts and the grainy parts tend to make you feel like you're just missing out on better stuff. They tend to make you feel as if you're lazing away your time, adrift in a sea of shrugs and empty calorie romances that are hollower than pinatas. Rarely are those beach albums worth a damn and rarely do they bring you back to them too many times. Springtime Carnivore's self-titled debut is a whole other thing completely. It's one of those records with layers and layers of deceptive depth. It's breezy and yet dense as a bolt. Morgan's songs about the many frivolous and often fascinating sides to that lunatic activity of love, that we all so frequently engage in, are staggering complex, but still fall-off-the-bone tender and chewy. She's made one of those beachy doo-wop records that you never knew you needed in your life until it came along.