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 Czech Republic and from Sao Paulo.
But I was there.
I was there in 1968.
I was there at the first Bowie show in Bromley.
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 1968 to 1971.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Johannesburg and Manchester.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Shanghai 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 at the first Suicide practice in a loft in New York.
I was working on the synthesizer 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 The Knickerbockers to the grunge kids.
I played it at the Astoria.
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 John Foxx. All the underground hits.
All Bootsy's Rubber Band tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Y Pants record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal rap hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '60s cut and another box set from the '80s.
I hear you're buying a theremin and a synthesizer and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Severed Heads record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your oboe and bought an arpeggiator.
I hear that you and your band have sold your arpeggiator and bought an oboe.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Lungfish,
Eric Dolphy,
Slick Rick,
Rod Modell,
The Smiths,
DJ Style,
John Coltrane,
The Divine Comedy,
Wire,
Outsiders,
Bang on a Can All-Stars,
Ultimate Spinach,
Eyeless In Gaza,
Grandmaster Flash,
Panda Bear,
Porter Ricks,
Arthur Verocai,
Joyce Sims,
Easy Going,
Severed Heads,
This Heat,
Aaron Thompson,
Alison Limerick,
Black Moon,
Gian Franco Pienzio,
Quando Quango,
Pierre Henry,
The Fuzztones,
D'Angelo,
Rotary Connection,
Ponytail,
Quadrant,
Arab on Radar,
Bootsy's Rubber Band,
Harry Pussy,
Duran Duran,
Flash Fearless,
The Dave Clark Five,
The Leaves,
Junior Murvin,
The Associates,
Man Eating Sloth,
Black Flag,
the Swans,
Tomorrow,
Peter and Kerry,
Sparks,
Bobby Sherman,
Parry Music,
Lou Reed,
Intrusion,
A Certain Ratio,
Gang Starr,
Kauko Röyhkä ja Narttu,
Loose Ends,
Babytalk,
David McCallum,
The Skatalites,
Mary Jane Girls,
Ultramagnetic MC's,
Kaleidoscope,
The Dirtbombs, The Dirtbombs, The Dirtbombs, The Dirtbombs.
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.