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 Turkmenistan and from Stockholm.
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 1965 to 1970.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Winnipeg and Mexico City.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Milan 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 1970 at the first Onyeabor practice in a loft in Enugu.
I was working on the mellotron sounds with much patience.
I was there when Donald Fagen 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 New York Dolls to the disco kids.
I played it at the Roxy.
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 Quadrant. All the underground hits.
All Nik Kershaw tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Young Marble Giants record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal punk 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 Dr. Dre and Snoop Doggy Dog record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your arpeggiator and bought a linndrum.
I hear that you and your band have sold your linndrum and bought an arpeggiator.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Jerry Gold Smith,
Vainqueur,
Trumans Water,
The Smoke,
Jawbox,
Suburban Knight,
Stockholm Monsters,
The Pretty Things,
Crime,
Yaz,
JFA,
T. Rex,
Gil Scott-Heron and Jamie xx,
Avey Tare's Slasher Flicks,
June Days,
Strawberry Alarm Clock,
Al Stewart,
Piero Umiliani,
The Divine Comedy,
Saccharine Trust,
Popol Vuh,
Black Sheep,
Isaac Hayes,
Aswad,
Magma,
Lonnie Liston Smith,
Jacques Brel,
the Swans,
Depeche Mode,
The Velvet Underground,
The New Christs,
Notorious Big And Bone Thugs,
Pantaleimon,
Deepchord,
Cameo,
John Cale,
Tres Demented,
Tears for Fears,
Aaron Thompson,
Patti Smith,
LL Cool J,
Ossler,
Soft Machine,
Angry Samoans,
Fat Boys,
Donald Byrd,
Sun City Girls,
Todd Terry,
Pharoah Sanders,
Dark Day,
Kas Product,
Jandek,
The J.B.'s,
Bang on a Can All-Stars,
The Sound,
Henry Cow,
The Selecter,
The Litter,
Soul Sonic Force,
Hot Snakes,
Oneida,
Byron Stingily, Byron Stingily, Byron Stingily, Byron Stingily.
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.