Infinitely Losing My Edge
Yeah, I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
The kids are coming up from behind.
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge to the kids from Samoa and from Tehran.
But I was there.
I was there in 1976.
I was there at the first Buzzcocks show in Bolton.
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge to the kids whose footsteps I hear when they get on the decks.
I'm losing my edge to the internet seekers who can tell me every member of every good group from 1965 to 1977.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Paris and Mexico City.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Houston kids in little jackets and borrowed nostalgia for the unremembered nineties.
I'm losing my edge.
I'm losing my edge.
I can hear the footsteps every night on the decks.
But I was there.
I was there in 1976 at the first Chic practice in a loft in New York.
I was working on the snare sounds with much patience.
I was there when Tom Verlaine started up his first band.
I told him, "Don't do it that way. You'll never make a dime."
I was there.
I was the first guy playing Rufus Thomas to the electroclash kids.
I played it at Cafe Wha.
Everybody thought I was crazy.
We all know.
I was there.
I was there.
I've never been wrong.
But I'm losing my edge to better-looking people with better ideas and more talent.
And they're actually really, really nice.
I'm losing my edge.
I heard you have a compilation of every good song ever done by anybody.
Every great song by Crash Course in Science. All the underground hits.
All The Star Department tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Gil Scott-Heron and Jamie xx record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal grunge hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '80s cut and another box set from the '90s.
I hear you're buying a 808 and an oboe and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Shuggie Otis record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your oboe and bought a mellotron.
I hear that you and your band have sold your mellotron and bought an oboe.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
The Five Americans,
Tomorrow,
Pulsallama,
Dorothy Ashby,
Black Pus,
Easy Going,
Throbbing Gristle,
China Crisis,
Tim Buckley,
Man Parrish,
48th St. Collective,
Brand Nubian,
Rotary Connection,
Wings,
The Real Kids,
Oneida,
Ultra Naté,
Manfred Mann's Earth Band,
Shuggie Otis,
Bobby Hutcherson,
The Alarm Clocks,
Big Daddy Kane,
The American Breed,
Colin Newman,
Severed Heads,
Panda Bear,
The Misunderstood,
Ludus,
Idris Muhammad,
Eddi Front,
the Germs,
Mars,
Sexual Harrassment,
London Community Gospel Choir,
Motorama,
Ralphi Rosario,
Ornette Coleman,
Arab on Radar,
The Jesus and Mary Chain,
The Gladiators,
Organ,
H. Thieme,
The Cowsills,
The Kinks,
Louis and Bebe Barron,
DJ Sneak,
Be Bop Deluxe,
John Lydon,
Schoolly D,
Sad Lovers and Giants,
the Fania All-Stars,
Stereo Dub,
June Days,
Black Sheep,
The Remains,
Gil Scott Heron,
Skaos,
Gang Gang Dance,
Lafayette Afro Rock Band,
Duran Duran,
The New Christs, The New Christs, The New Christs, The New Christs.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.
You don't know what you really want.