Social Media Circus

by Almeida

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  • Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.

     £5 GBP  or more




released July 25, 2015

Recorded at Empora Studios by Mark Roberts
Mastered at Hell Yeah! Mastering.



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Almeida Brighton, UK

Progressive Thrash outfit on Lockjaw Records (UK) and Bird Attack Records (US) and Bells On Records (Japan).

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Track Name: Icke-Aramba!
Fuck a fucking duck. Is sheathed madness not a good enough explanation for a flash of iron in the eyes of an irate individual? And anguish, is it the product of the sum of animal ambition?

It's an intergalactic war for our souls, wallets and arseholes. Live long and prosper, for the benefit of none but the ruling class of alien overlords. Watch out!They're watching over us.Taking your brain to another dimension. You'll find it all inside my new book, on your right.

Oh, life – it's all on your mind. We're in the age of information, yet the answer is right before your eyes. The fault – the axe left to grind can be laid at the feet of greedy men.
And shape-shifting reptilians.
All hail the scaly ones!
Track Name: The Twisted Architect
Running captive in a greyscale room, I am lost and losing. In moving mirrors I move myself. You falter and grieve, unhinged by the rage unseen. In search of reprieve, designs of death and anguish breed. Aghast I proceed, upon halcyon dreams, despite no respite, no need – upon hell's seat. Through misted windows lies an arcane world, demonic wings unfurl. A voice equivocal, yet luring and dulcet sings softly of ways from here. In moving mirrors I lose myself to memorabilia.
This home drifts the unknown. A hollow house with no beguile, no thought worthwhile. Alone. Drenched to the bone. All medicated smiles abate, but all are wrong. Write the song.

Can a revolution save us all from paralysing greed? Am I rising up to take a fall? A harrowed muse
concedes with the sonic need on which these paranoias feed. Can a revelation save a soul with a memoir of misdeeds? One plea, between the volume racks and the scattered stacks of conceit.

A view of these two worlds from in-between dusk and dawn's seams. This home, a weathered mass of stone unchecked. Untold. To sow in salted lands with rueful hands.
Track Name: Payday
Ride feather wings in a burning sky as you follow fate. The steady earth of the stomping ground would be enough to tempt the brave. A fiscal reckoning. Feed me everything or I'll seethe in you. Feed me everything or this devouring will keep me subdued. We promise relief. O.C (obsessive compulsive). Inspiring conceit - guiding consumption - promotion for aspiring elites - tag lines.
Douse inhibition and buy!

It's payday, but it came late. I've spent the last three weeks. I'm living hand to mouth and now there's no way that I- that we can make it through the coming months if we don't borrow more to make up the rates.

Sense of responsibility. The victim of co-dependency.

Welcome to our humble emporium. If you can't pay it all, that's fine, we'll help you out. One standard form and you will drive away (through a shitstorm).

Feed me kerosene, I want kerosene.
Take everything.
Yeah, nice one.
All the best.
Track Name: A Book of Endless Pages
The difference between reservation and preservation is hanging dong on a special occasion, on the shoulders of friends. How we laughed then. Then he did it again. Again and again. Again, and again, and again, and again, and again.

He left the ringmaster for dead, and led the circus out the tent. So we went, surged through field and passers-by, past the farmsteads, passing cries – to the skyline. What heads would turn for those left behind when we were so hell-bent on purpose? The strongman took the point, he tore through the crowd in that market like old paper. And the tailor's daughter, she begged for Providence. He did proffer her overhead, an offering to harsher gods, mind. Safe from the slaughter. Blessed and helpless. Then I stumbled upon the rapers. The bearded girl held fast. Her cries for a saviour met the vacant smiles of jugglers, juggling razors in the clamour to shave her.
A travelling troupe, travelling tropes.
Save us. Take us home. Those were the last sounds I heard before the slitting of throats.
And I'm taking notes on the way out...

Fuck this show - your two-bit hole. Are we all fucking clowns? You're made up or pied out.

Clapping louder than thunder without truly understanding what we clap for. We care, we share, we scroll on. With the very qualities that condemn us most loudly applauded. The laudable trail a parade of a fallen world. Squat on a pot for fool's gold.

What often was expressed was never that well said. We, the culprits of vain distractions - turning cheek and talking shit. I'll do my best to try and make amends. This manuscript never ends, and it's never left unread, while the rest live on a shelf. What oft' was expressed was ne'er well said.
We left the ringmaster for dead.
Track Name: Creed
The city glows, but do moral fires burn our homes? A sacrifice offered to your creed, negating any wisdom or belief. Are these reasons or excuses? Does low moral fibre not just yearn to be civil? Some do, but they're not like you... Are they not like you? I couldn't feign benevolence while I've shelter and sustenance, while billions are unfed, unclothed, uneducated and just hunting for a home. I'm perplexed by this. Such inhospitable and wry, fed to the brim, and this bullshit fashion uniform you're in. Would you have such asymmetric views, if you'd walked a mile?

The reckless light the streets, guilt diffused amongst a crowd of nameless faces. They razed in protest of fire. Would you crack your neighbour's eggs to make progress? This may be a sorry state, but haven't we all got enough on our plates?

Neglect breeds hate, and so men grow the stones to hurl a rock in another man's face. The backlash from yesteryear's baton gave birth to those who have no fear. 'Pigs' – the rival force.

A retort of spewing heads flocked to add to the pile. The only one with a valid point was shouted down with prejudice and pride. The aftermath broadcast of a period drama. He never tried to justify this funeral pyre, and made no excuse for what transpired. Just that a father's tale of beaten heads and broken bones on the road when sewn in certain homes might yield misguided ways to lament the dead. And wildfire spreads. We may forge with what we find but sometimes only a mind can sharpen a mind. Though a broken glass alibi in a first world state still reeks of white whine, the images they televised released a strange old man who'd never been let out. He stays home with the drapes unfurled, and shades in a map of the world in black and white.