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 Ivory Coast and from Seoul.
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 1962 to 1979.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Lagos and Woodstock.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Columbus 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 1973 at the first Television 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 Khruangbin to the rap kids.
I played it at the Crocodile.
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 Justin Hinds & The Dominoes. All the underground hits.
All A Flock of Seagulls tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Tres Demented record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal dance 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 marimba and a sitar and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a The Vogues record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your synthesizer and bought a spring reverb.
I hear that you and your band have sold your spring reverb and bought a synthesizer.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Neu!,
Terry Callier,
Marmalade,
Bobby Hutcherson,
Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five,
Slick Rick,
Mary Jane Girls,
The Mojo Men,
Matthew Halsall,
Sun City Girls,
Tom Boy,
The Fire Engines,
June Days,
Kerrie Biddell,
the Slits,
Q and Not U,
Lonnie Liston Smith,
Spoonie Gee,
Desert Stars,
Monks,
Sister Nancy,
Bluetip,
Spandau Ballet,
B.T. Express,
The Gladiators,
Bizarre Inc.,
Skriet,
The Gap Band,
Bob Dylan,
Gabor Szabo,
The Knickerbockers,
Rahsaan Roland Kirk,
Gil Scott Heron,
Black Moon,
Aloha Tigers,
The Young Rascals,
The Gories,
Chris Corsano,
Godley & Creme,
The Index,
LL Cool J,
The Smoke,
Kool G Rap & DJ Polo,
Make Up,
Nils Olav,
Piero Umiliani,
Los Fastidios,
Lizzy Mercier Descloux,
Alton Ellis,
Hardrive,
Y Pants,
The Slits,
Oneida,
One Last Wish,
Beasts of Bourbon,
The American Breed,
Strawberry Alarm Clock,
Danielle Patucci,
The Vogues,
Sonic Youth,
Bobby Byrd, Bobby Byrd, Bobby Byrd, Bobby Byrd.
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.