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 Bosnia Herzegovina and from Salvador.
But I was there.
I was there in 1971.
I was there at the first Big Star show in Memphis.
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 1974.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Johannesburg and Philadelphia.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school New York 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 organ 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 Country Teasers to the rock kids.
I played it at the Spitz.
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 Cymande. All the underground hits.
All Dr. Dre and Snoop Doggy Dog tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Unrelated Segments 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 '50s cut and another box set from the '90s.
I hear you're buying a mellotron and an organ and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Harry Pussy record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your theremin and bought an arpeggiator.
I hear that you and your band have sold your arpeggiator and bought a theremin.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Byron Stingily,
Flamin' Groovies,
The Smoke,
Robert Hood,
The Saints,
Nas,
Terry Callier,
Fear,
Ultimate Spinach,
the Swans,
The Red Krayola,
Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark,
Jandek,
Robert Wyatt,
Yaz,
Alice Coltrane,
The Black Dice,
Major Organ And The Adding Machine,
Boogie Down Productions,
Nick Fraelich,
Harry Pussy,
The Blackbyrds,
Outsiders,
Throbbing Gristle,
Pere Ubu,
Gichy Dan,
MDC,
Brick,
AZ,
Guru Guru,
Bush Tetras,
Tim Buckley,
Quando Quango,
Beasts of Bourbon,
Bobby Hutcherson,
Aural Exciters,
Sexual Harrassment,
Moby Grape,
The Skatalites,
PIL,
The Pretty Things,
Marmalade,
Angry Samoans,
Newcleus,
E-Dancer,
Matthew Halsall,
The Real Kids,
The Gladiators,
Camberwell Now,
Bobby Byrd,
Kings Of Tomorrow,
Eurythmics,
Crash Course in Science,
T. Rex,
Blossom Toes,
Alison Limerick,
Manfred Mann's Earth Band,
U.S. Maple,
The Beau Brummels,
Pantaleimon,
Sällskapet, Sällskapet, Sällskapet, Sällskapet.
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.