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 Israel and from Tehran.
But I was there.
I was there in 1984.
I was there at the first Arcadia show in London.
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 1966 to 1978.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Hong Kong and Manchester.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Madrid 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 1970 at the first Onyeabor practice in a loft in Enugu.
I was working on the mellotron sounds with much patience.
I was there when Michael McDonald 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 Guru Guru to the dance kids.
I played it at the 40 Watt.
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 Thinking Fellers Union Local 282. All the underground hits.
All Reagan Youth tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Bobbi Humphrey record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal rock hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '50s cut and another box set from the '70s.
I hear you're buying a snare and a synthesizer and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Roxy Music record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your arpeggiator and bought a spring reverb.
I hear that you and your band have sold your spring reverb and bought an arpeggiator.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
The Angels of Light,
Groovy Waters,
Little Man,
Das Ding,
Davy DMX,
Masta Ace, Craig G, Kool G Rap, Big Daddy Kane,
Maleditus Sound,
Maurizio,
Minnie Riperton,
Donald Byrd,
Delon & Dalcan,
The Invisible,
Motorama,
John Foxx,
Eurythmics,
Lee Hazlewood,
Severed Heads,
Morten Harket,
Gil Scott-Heron & Brian Jackson,
Sun Ra,
Camouflage,
Röyhkä ja Rättö ja Lehtisalo,
Ornette Coleman,
Todd Rundgren,
MC5,
Throbbing Gristle,
Vainqueur,
The Offenders,
FM Einheit,
The Monks,
Crispy Ambulance,
Magma,
The Black Dice,
Nirvana,
Glenn Branca,
Q65,
Sun City Girls,
Carl Craig,
Man Eating Sloth,
The Dirtbombs,
Wighnomy Brothers & Robag Wruhme,
Deepchord,
The Skatalites,
Slave,
Ash Ra Tempel,
Reagan Youth,
Marshall Jefferson,
Lalann,
Theoretical Girls,
Essential Logic,
Shuggie Otis,
Isaac Hayes,
Robert Hood,
John Holt,
Reuben Wilson,
Goldenarms,
F. McDonald,
Lou Reed & Metallica,
Joe Smooth,
The Mummies,
Heavy D & The Boyz,
The Victims,
Graham Central Station, Graham Central Station, Graham Central Station, Graham Central Station.
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.