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 Niger and from Madrid.
But I was there.
I was there in .
I was there at the first Suicide 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 1963 to 1975.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Toronto and Calgary.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Philadelphia 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 1983 at the first Bronski Beat practice in a loft in Brixton.
I was working on the marimba 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 the Human League to the jazz kids.
I played it at the Crocodile.
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 Pharaoh Sanders and the Fire Engines. All the underground hits.
All Neil Young tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Gang Starr 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 an organ and a guitar and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Ash Ra Tempel 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?
The Last Poets,
Gang Green,
8 Eyed Spy,
The Monks,
Spandau Ballet,
Sun Ra Arkestra,
Eric B and Rakim,
The Associates,
the Slits,
Roxy Music,
Average White Band,
Das Ding,
the Bar-Kays,
The Litter,
David McCallum,
The Electric Prunes,
The Detroit Cobras,
Saccharine Trust,
Lungfish,
Neil Young,
Dave Gahan,
The Cowsills,
Josef K,
Silicon Teens,
Blossom Toes,
Ultravox,
Godley & Creme,
Judy Mowatt,
The Dave Clark Five,
Scrapy,
Desert Stars,
Harpers Bizarre,
the Normal,
Jeff Mills,
Frankie Knuckles,
Kayak,
In Retrospect,
Lakeside,
Jerry Gold Smith,
Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds,
the Fania All-Stars,
The Gories,
Drive Like Jehu,
Marvin Gaye,
The Count Five,
Kauko Röyhkä ja Narttu,
Scratch Acid,
Bang On A Can,
Neu!,
Dual Sessions,
Gichy Dan,
Lee Hazlewood,
Colin Newman,
Pantytec,
Barry Ungar,
Gil Scott Heron,
The Mummies,
Nik Kershaw,
Larry & the Blue Notes,
Sunsets and Hearts,
Agent Orange,
Be Bop Deluxe, Be Bop Deluxe, Be Bop Deluxe, Be Bop Deluxe.
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.