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 Monaco and from Bologna.
But I was there.
I was there in 1976.
I was there at the first Wire show in Watford.
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 1961 to 1970.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Philadelphia and Paris.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Manchester 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 1980 at the first Cybotron practice in a loft in Detroit.
I was working on the harpsichord sounds with much patience.
I was there when Captain Beefheart 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 Black Bananas to the jazz kids.
I played it at the Troubador.
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 Beasts of Bourbon. All the underground hits.
All Man Parrish tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Notorious Big And Bone Thugs record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal punk hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '60s cut and another box set from the '70s.
I hear you're buying an arpeggiator and a rhodes and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Wings 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?
Stetsasonic,
Man Parrish,
Lalo Schifrin,
The Move,
Bobby Byrd,
Trumans Water,
The Blues Magoos,
Depeche Mode,
Thee Headcoats,
Ken Boothe,
Surgeon,
Popol Vuh,
Liliput,
Talk Talk,
Sonic Youth,
Kings Of Tomorrow,
The Skatalites,
Saccharine Trust,
Pere Ubu,
The Seeds,
Minutemen,
Freddie Wadling,
Peter and Kerry,
Cheater Slicks,
The Chocolate Watch Band,
Alice Coltrane,
This Heat,
Tres Demented,
David Axelrod,
Slick Rick,
The Victims,
Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band,
the Germs,
MC5,
The New Christs,
Eve St. Jones,
Terry Callier,
Inner City,
Kas Product,
Barry Ungar,
Bush Tetras,
Charles Mingus,
Half Japanese,
Bootsy's Rubber Band,
The Motions,
Swell Maps,
Cameo,
Hoover,
Yellowson,
Ultravox,
Wally Richardson,
Hardrive,
Drive Like Jehu,
Tim Buckley,
Black Pus,
the Human League,
The Sonics,
Con Funk Shun,
Rakim,
New Order,
Heavy D & The Boyz,
Drexciya, Drexciya, Drexciya, Drexciya.
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.