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 Maldives and from Manchester.
But I was there.
I was there in 1976.
I was there at the first Chic show in New York.
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 1971.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Salvador and Manchester.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Sao Paulo 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 snare 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 The Peanut Butter Conspiracy to the grunge kids.
I played it at the 40 Watt.
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 The Golliwogs. All the underground hits.
All Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Piero Umiliani record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal grime hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '80s cut and another box set from the '70s.
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 Swans record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your organ and bought a spring reverb.
I hear that you and your band have sold your spring reverb and bought an organ.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
PIL,
Electric Prunes,
Traffic Nightmare,
Vainqueur,
Von Mondo,
The Shadows of Knight,
Rufus Thomas,
The Durutti Column,
Country Joe & The Fish,
Godley & Creme,
Sun Ra Arkestra,
MDC,
In Retrospect,
The Slits,
Aural Exciters,
Cecil Taylor,
Pole,
Dead Boys,
F. McDonald,
Brass Construction,
Aaron Thompson,
Kool G Rap & DJ Polo,
The Raincoats,
The Sound,
Chrome,
Organ,
Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band,
Patti Smith,
K-Klass,
Monolake,
Anakelly,
Y Pants,
Anthony Braxton,
Public Image Ltd.,
Steve Hackett,
The Remains,
Spoonie Gee,
Pharaoh Sanders and the Fire Engines,
Little Man,
Minor Threat,
The Divine Comedy,
Bill Near,
Sly & The Family Stone,
The Skatalites,
Glenn Branca,
Cluster,
Los Fastidios,
the Association,
Man Eating Sloth,
June Days,
Judy Mowatt,
Skaos,
Tommy Roe,
Babytalk,
The Last Poets,
Gang Starr,
R.M.O.,
Mandrill,
Barbara Tucker,
Radiopuhelimet,
Be Bop Deluxe,
Qualms,
Siglo XX, Siglo XX, Siglo XX, Siglo XX.
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.