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 Benin and from Lyon.
But I was there.
I was there in 1975.
I was there at the first Ubu show in Cleveland.
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 1964 to 1977.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Mexico City and Shanghai.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Johannesburg 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 1977 at the first Mistral practice in a loft in Amsterdam.
I was working on the guitar 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 Lalo Schifrin to the electroclash 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 Oppenheimer Analysis. All the underground hits.
All The Angels of Light tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Freddie Wadling 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 '70s.
I hear you're buying a rhodes and a guitar and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Panda Bear record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your mellotron and bought a spring reverb.
I hear that you and your band have sold your spring reverb and bought a mellotron.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Basic Channel,
Rites of Spring,
Rosa Yemen,
Amazonics,
The Sound,
Lightning Bolt,
Yazoo,
Tropical Tobacco,
T. Rex,
Heaven 17,
Television Personalities,
Boz Scaggs,
Masters at Work,
Country Teasers,
Marine Girls,
The Residents,
D'Angelo,
Tears for Fears,
Surgeon,
Joy Division,
Rhythm & Sound,
The Flesh Eaters,
Visage,
The Litter,
Sarah Menescal,
World's Most,
Essential Logic,
The American Breed,
Dennis Brown,
Bronski Beat,
The Gladiators,
The Velvet Underground,
Alice Coltrane,
The Beau Brummels,
Joe Finger,
Henry Cow,
Mandrill,
Accadde A,
Simply Red,
Sällskapet,
Audionom,
Stetsasonic,
the Sonics,
John Coltrane,
Wire,
Grey Daturas,
Susan Cadogan,
Ajijia Myrayebe,
Lalann,
Curtis Mayfield,
Teenage Jesus and the Jerks,
Lebanon Hanover,
These Immortal Souls,
The Victims,
The Invisible,
The Cure,
Aloha Tigers,
Ituana,
Maleditus Sound, Maleditus Sound, Maleditus Sound, Maleditus Sound.
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.