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 Costa Rica and from Jakarta.
But I was there.
I was there in 1965.
I was there at the first Beefheart show in Lancaster.
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 1968 to 1978.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Mexico City and Seoul.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Paris 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 1976 at the first Chic practice in a loft in New York.
I was working on the snare 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 T.S.O.L. to the dance 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 Roger Hodgson. All the underground hits.
All The Dead C tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Yellowson record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal grunge hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '80s cut and another box set from the '80s.
I hear you're buying a guitar and a güiro and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a The Victims record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your chamberlin and bought an oboe.
I hear that you and your band have sold your oboe and bought a chamberlin.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
The Litter,
Todd Rundgren,
James White and The Blacks,
Monks,
Andrew Ashong & Theo Parrish,
Mantronix,
Lower 48,
Smog,
Roy Ayers,
Pagans,
Grauzone,
David Axelrod,
Black Bananas,
F. McDonald,
Electric Prunes,
Simply Red,
Ultramagnetic MC's,
Fort Wilson Riot,
The Flesh Eaters,
Can,
Adolescents,
Lou Christie,
The J.B.'s,
Sister Nancy,
Heaven 17,
The Fall,
Marmalade,
Anakelly,
Beasts of Bourbon,
Malaria!,
Mars,
The Dave Clark Five,
Cheater Slicks,
The Slits,
The American Breed,
Monolake,
Hashim,
New York Dolls,
the Soft Cell,
Deadbeat,
Zero Boys,
Marshall Jefferson,
Lindisfarne,
Rahsaan Roland Kirk,
Bauhaus,
Jacques Brel,
Animal Collective,
Sam Rivers,
The Sound,
Avey Tare's Slasher Flicks,
The Skatalites,
Theoretical Girls,
Ornette Coleman,
The Stooges,
Porter Ricks,
Pet Shop Boys,
Suicide,
Black Moon,
Bill Near,
The Red Krayola,
Matthew Bourne,
The Men They Couldn't Hang, The Men They Couldn't Hang, The Men They Couldn't Hang, The Men They Couldn't Hang.
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.