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 Moldova and from Bologna.
But I was there.
I was there in 1970.
I was there at the first Onyeabor show in Enugu.
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 1979.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Sao Paulo and Manchester.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Beijing 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 1978 at the first Visage practice in a loft in London.
I was working on the synthesizer sounds with much patience.
I was there when Holger Czukay 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 Lou Reed & John Cale to the grunge kids.
I played it at CBGB's.
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 Gang of Four. All the underground hits.
All Crime tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every The Dead C record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal disco hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '50s cut and another box set from the '70s.
I hear you're buying a sitar and a spring reverb and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Deutsch Amerikanische Freundschaft record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your oboe and bought a harpsichord.
I hear that you and your band have sold your harpsichord and bought an oboe.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Porter Ricks,
Gong,
The Saints,
Sad Lovers and Giants,
The Busters,
John Lydon,
Wings,
Crispian St. Peters,
The Neon Judgement,
Absolute Body Control,
Vladislav Delay,
Curtis Mayfield,
Jandek,
Malaria!,
K-Klass,
Lalo Schifrin,
Throbbing Gristle,
Thinking Fellers Union Local 282,
The Kinks,
Faraquet,
Fort Wilson Riot,
Laurel Aitken,
June Days,
Patti Smith,
The Move,
Second Layer,
Tim Buckley,
Bobby Hutcherson,
Masters at Work,
Barbara Tucker,
Teenage Jesus and the Jerks,
Todd Rundgren,
Bizarre Inc.,
Red Lorry Yellow Lorry,
The Monochrome Set,
Man Eating Sloth,
Roxy Music,
Dennis Brown,
John Cale,
Kauko Röyhkä ja Narttu,
Warsaw,
DJ Sneak,
Pantaleimon,
Soul Sonic Force,
The Vogues,
Louis and Bebe Barron,
Minnie Riperton,
DNA,
James Chance & The Contortions,
Todd Terry,
Livin' Joy,
Sugar Minott,
Deepchord,
Clear Light,
Country Teasers,
The Music Machine,
MDC,
Sandy B,
The Alarm Clocks,
Scientists,
Bootsy's Rubber Band,
Barclay James Harvest,
a-ha,
The Trojans, The Trojans, The Trojans, The Trojans.
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.