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Madness & Extinction

by Seeming

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stacistacisxxx
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stacistacisxxx My sister's favorite musician ever made this album... Is that enough to say about "Madness & Extinction?" Well not quite, it's a very well produced album! It has some very poetic, complex, "mind-screwy" lyrics like those heard in most avant-garde/industrial acts! But it's also got an angry synth-pop vibe, which is something my sister loves listening to! Favorite track: Come Back.
nobizzle
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nobizzle As fan since the previous project, the remake of New Year brought me here, and I ended up staying due to the The Burial. The entire album pleases even those not familiar. I am thrilled that Alex and company got back to it and continue to produce their own brand of music. Favorite track: The Burial.
callmesalticidae
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callmesalticidae This, too, shall end. Favorite track: The Burial.
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    Seeming's cavernous music fuses masterful songwriting with explosive and strange passion. The electronic duo's debut Madness & Extinction is a foreboding opus, equal parts chaotic rage and melodic sweetness. Standout tracks "The Eyes of Extinction" and "Goodnight London" are essentials on any 2014 mixtape for the black-clad set, and "The Burial" is the bleakest pop single you'll ever dance to. Seeming's members are both veterans of acclaimed darkwave act ThouShaltNot: Alex Reed (author of Assimilate: A Critical History of Industrial Music) and drummer Aaron Fuleki. A post-gothic meditation on insanity, history, and the earth in crisis, Madness & Extinction announces the bold arrival of Seeming.

    Includes unlimited streaming of Madness & Extinction via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
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1.
Hiding under the ground. Is the world still turning round? Writing. I give names to the colors and shapes. Can I recall my lover's face? Sliding, are there a thousand animals near, or is the breathing that I hear the space from one to ten, from blue to white to grey? And when I stare into the eyes of extinction, where a memory's asleep, where it's unsalvageably deep, will I blend into the water or surrender and be truly. truly gone in annihilation's splendor? Hunt me. I'll be running stray from the pack. Blood and moonlight glow on my back. Want me. Come on and give me reason to sing. Turn me into anything. Confront me because the choice is clear as ice between the emptiness, concise and dead, or birth again: A chaos shaped like God. Come stare into the eyes of extinction with me and together we might see another burning of the dawn. When it's empty up in heaven, there among the last debris is the seed still green and tender of a life that's living on.
2.
New Year 03:58 video
It's a new year in an old house with more technology you'll never understand. Break out your typewriter with your "thees" and "thous." Smearing old words with your old hands. You'll call me Cassandra. I'll call you King James, and all we write is true and all of it insane. But the changing of the seasons will forever stay the same. You say the infantry's retreating like the knew how this would end. Did you hear the Germans lost the war? I bet they could use a friend. Right now supper's getting cold. Right now God is growing old. Right now dialect is evolving outside of this house, or so I'm told. And it's a real fear for you and me, burning clothing just to keep the winter warm. My fingers trace the gumline of a skeleton key, not caring whether it could open up the door. And the face at the window are children in the womb, this room, either way. Our infancy's receding. We're a heartbeat from the end. Did you hear the madmen lost the war? I bet they could use a friend. We're stockpiling warheads. We're stuck in the past. Death is art. Truth is beauty, and the first shall be last. You'll call me Athena; I'll call you Monet when the world is falling down, crumbling like clay. We're hiding in caverns, forgetting our names. We dissolve in mythology like blood in the rain. And you'll call me the lion; I'll call you the lamb. I am lost in all you are; you're alive for what I am.
3.
Celestial 03:39
You are my Polaris, the still point I revolve around. But look through the eyes of Cassiopeia and see I'm forever upside down. Little Vertigo, little Scorpio, in the afterglow - celestial. I'll dissolve when you laugh, when your words cut me in half, in a distant holograph - Celestial. And when in fire you turn red giant and my eyes burn out before you do. I'll be hiding in the dark matter and you'll be hiding in plain view. We are indigo. We are embryo. Through the radio.
4.
Can I kill the lights. Shut off the energy? 'Cause the world is my windmill: it's my enemy. Can I kill the voice that babbles me to sleep, warning me that this process never ends? I'll be talking when I am dead and soil and the sound will remain when I carbonize to oil. It's the ecstasy of flying miles above the hungry war. It's the fear of concentration pulling me away once more. It's the reason that I'm lying to you, why I can't sit still. It's the vaguest implication joining this world to my will. And I don't think I can make this stop, though everything could change in the world up top. Behind my skin blares a spoken song. though everything could change, it will echo on and on. I'm a radio tuned to white noise in between. What was hissing in the foreground is now a backdrop screen, and should a signal emerge within this cloudy stream, would it trickle a message that I trust? Can I know that a soothing word's not just the beginning of more grey noise to fill the dream? There's uncertainty with every face I think I've seen before. There's an endless second guessing what's behind my bedroom door. There's no doubt that every blade of glass feels urgency to speak. There is no writing on the wall in braille through foothills of concrete. I'm no hallucination. Watch out: your vision lies. For every Coelacanth reborn, nine hundred oceans die. I know the truth is waiting somewhere behind the eyes. It narrates beyond the story's end. Books locked from the inside: "Dream never in a dream. You are all I need." Your window wide, your soul outside, thrown fast and run far. You're not Alone, you're higher flown than boys with one heart. Stare at the sun. I'm everyone, I'm bone and feather. I float above the borders of now and forever.
5.
I thought I felt an earthquake. I thought I'd had a stroke when the city full of people turned to shadows made of smoke. Now huddled with my wireless and an atlas of the earth, I'll say my little words. Yes. I will spin the globe and watch it die and wish you all a fond goodbye, for what it may be worth. The bombers have been sighted over Paris, so now it's just a question of how long. And Pittsburgh, we'll remember you, and farewell. Buenos Aires, and no one's left to see the fires in Hong Kong. So goodnight London, goodnight. There goes Salt Lake City, where my best friend Kelly lived, and through the static, I can hear the sendoff in Madrid. And I kissed a girl from Moscow once, but now the Kremlin's ash. So please accept my little blessing song: I'll sing to all the lost as long as I'm alive - There goes Saigon in the mercy of the flash. And the stars above explode. eternal ballet from the black. And maybe this is fitting that we dance with light right back. And maybe this is fitting that we dance with light right back. I never got to know Australia. Sorry that I never wrote, Shanghai. Lower the curtain down on Memphis, and snuff out the candle on Mumbai.
6.
Broke the city streets for you. Planted jungles where they burned. All the roots have toppled glass and are dead, and the Thylacine's fled and the rain melts away their tracks. But I always thought if I remade the world, then you'd come back. Burst through every dam for you. Made an ocean of the land. Sent the poachers to the silent sky, but I still don't understand: when my ear's to the ground. Then I swear there's a sound, a savage roar of attack. If the echoes of the lost still pound, then why can't you come back? The Ibex of the Pyrenees. Woolf, Van Gogh, and Plath. Speak in Manx and speak in Beothuk. Walk the long, the lonely path, where everyone, everything, sure as songbirds can sing, gazes outward from the black. If the light of heaven finds the earth, then why an't you come back?
7.
I'm alone in the house. The power is dead. I've done all that I can to keep track of time in my head, but what I think of as day is a twilight away. I'm just a shade of grey in a black, black bed. And a prayer could be water. It could fill in the gaps. And a thousand Muhammeds uncork a thousand taps. But somehow I am dry and from the corner of my eye, I see real worlds die when they're drawn onto maps. There's a shadow that fades in and out with the light. I pretend it's an angel. I pretend it's a satellite. And I know of course that somewhere there's a source taking color by force, dragging all into white. Now the shadow is moving and looks like a fist and the darkness is connecting in a pugilist kiss. And I am flying and I'm reeling, and I'm seeing through the ceiling and the clouds are all revealing more and more as they twist. Now it's a wolf. It's a bullet. It's a mother of ten. Now it's a boulder rolling from atop the mountain again. Now it's coercing the unwilling. It's insidious, instilling need for sex and love of killing all the children of men. Now every meaning is a ghost, each number a clown because the blades of the engine keep spinning around, never reaching the center, knocking but they don't enter, pulling from what is meant or projecting fatally unbound. When the shadows stare back and tell me what do they see? Is there a burning bush, a lion or a hammer in me? And tell me is it arbitrary, the images I carry? It's between Marx and Mary and the shadows and me. Yes the shadows are moving and I'm scared to know why. Yes the shadows are moving and we're all gonna die.
8.
The Burial 03:27
To the lighthouse that faithfully whispers the fisherman starboard: To the children whose days number more than every flower in Europe: to the nations that charter their florid colonial highways: to the towers erected by contractors named after kings: God will bury you. Nature will bury you. To the gunmen who guard against all of the starving: God will bury you. Nature will bury you. To the screens and the radios where worlds turn to weapons: God will bury you. Nature will bury you. To the terrified rich man: God will bury you. To the killers of animals: nature will bury you. To the worship of justice, the reliance on reason, and the fire in your eyes: God will bury you. Nature will bury you. Time will bury your bones unseen. Total and absolute, infinite amplitude, till all the black is ripe in green. And I'm not angry, I'm not sad, I'm just stating the fact that God will bury you. Nature will bury you.
9.
Genevieve, put on your jewelry, and hide that handgun where they will not see. Don't mind your wrinkles. Don't mind your age, because the time has come to take the stage in that black empire dress you stole. Now bravely face the night patrol. And you'll be beautiful for the last time. Friedrichsain, bear proud your injury, your graffiti tags and squatter luxury, because the cleanup crew is here to scrub the past and a civilized future is coming fast with the traces of '45 and '68 forever painted over by the state. So be beautiful for the last time. But poor ugly child, go to the balcony. Do you hear the clouds beckon with their falconry? To a skylocked world will you show your face, where your burns and bends are silk and lace? Will you trade your body for falling snow? Will you blanket the ground below, where you'll be beautiful for the first time?
10.
Convincing 03:45
Desert grows with hopes of kissing the jungle's coolness to breathe in through the wet sand. But dead land's where all the vectors steer, Now the desert's here and she's drowning in chaos. How strong the hangman's hands become with revolution's swarming buzz, and as the fortress crumbles he is all the upholds what there was. And without the black hood and the gallows to pronounce his silent name, he'll be reborn: another hangman for the new regime. What does the washed up actress turn to when her lines are cutting room debris? She charms a field commander, steals the secret plots of World War three. And batting childish eyes, she's feigning drunken sloppiness while giving green-light clearance to the death machines in Washington D.C. and where do I go now that life has come tied me to the mast? The sirens' voices calling "Alex, can't you hear us? Don't sail past this starving magic. Don't pretend that you don't care." But I whisper, "Art is less than life itself." I'm really quite convincing.
11.
12.
13.
14.

about

Madness & Extinction by Seeming is the feel-bad indie debut of 2014. Deceptively pop, Seeming's postgothic music inevitably sings isolation, a crisis of nature, and an indictment of just about everyone.

credits

released March 11, 2014

Guitar on 1, 2, 3, 13 – Jeremy Bayout
Backing Vocals on 4 – Christa Belle Martin
Guitar on 5 – Joe Wollard
Textures on 12 – Derek C. F. Pegritz

Mastered By – Bob Power
Mixed By – Andrew Sega (tracks: 1, 6, 9, 13)
Musical Assistance – Hugh Jones
Producer – Aaron Fuleki, Alex Reed*
Songwriter – Alex Reed* (tracks: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 12)
Songwriter – Gold/Lloyd/Mertens (track 11)

This profile is managed by the guys at Storming the Base. If you order from here your email will be added to their mailing list, but that's what you always wanted, right?

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Seeming Ithaca, New York

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SEEMING:

post-gothic
post-human
post-everything

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