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 Belgium and from Mexico City.
But I was there.
I was there in 1962.
I was there at the first Guess Who show in Winnipeg.
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 1963 to 1973.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Manchester and Portland.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Portland 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 1962 at the first Guess Who practice in a loft in Winnipeg.
I was working on the synthesizer sounds with much patience.
I was there when Donald Fagen 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 Crooked Eye to the techno 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 Porter Ricks. All the underground hits.
All Half Japanese tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every The Young Rascals 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 '80s.
I hear you're buying a synthesizer and a rhodes and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a The Residents record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your güiro and bought a spring reverb.
I hear that you and your band have sold your spring reverb and bought a güiro.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Laurel Aitken,
Al Stewart,
Pierre Henry,
Tomorrow,
Television,
Traffic Nightmare,
Reuben Wilson,
Tommy Roe,
Man Parrish,
Bang On A Can,
Toni Rubio,
Bauhaus,
Piero Umiliani,
The Tremeloes,
Average White Band,
A Certain Ratio,
Public Enemy,
Schoolly D,
Sixth Finger,
Teenage Jesus and the Jerks,
Dual Sessions,
Eden Ahbez,
Jawbox,
Lizzy Mercier Descloux,
Ossler,
Kayak,
Masta Ace, Craig G, Kool G Rap, Big Daddy Kane,
Alton Ellis,
Bobby Hutcherson,
Cal Tjader,
Wasted Youth,
Strawberry Alarm Clock,
Nils Olav,
Banda Bassotti,
Blancmange,
Mission of Burma,
X-101,
X-Ray Spex,
Stiv Bators,
Thinking Fellers Union Local 282,
Underground Resistance,
Duran Duran,
The Star Department,
Lalo Schifrin,
John Lydon,
Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five,
Rakim,
Buzzcocks,
Joy Division,
Robert Görl,
Kevin Saunderson,
OOIOO,
Scion,
Lakeside,
Lindisfarne,
Audionom,
Don Cherry,
Smog,
The Beau Brummels,
Altered Images,
The Techniques,
Richard Hell and the Voidoids,
Bang on a Can All-Stars,
Amon Düül, Amon Düül, Amon Düül, Amon Düül.
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.