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 Thailand and from Calgary.
But I was there.
I was there in 1967.
I was there at the first Rodriguez show in Detroit.
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 1969 to 1979.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Copenhagen and Jakarta.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Glasgow 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 Human League practice in a loft in Sheffield.
I was working on the clarinet sounds with much patience.
I was there when Lou Reed 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 Index to the grunge 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 Lou Christie. All the underground hits.
All Boredoms tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band 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 '80s cut and another box set from the '70s.
I hear you're buying an oboe and a chamberlin and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Minor Threat record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your snare and bought a spring reverb.
I hear that you and your band have sold your spring reverb and bought a snare.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Teenage Jesus and the Jerks,
Popol Vuh,
The Monks,
Dorothy Ashby,
Byron Stingily,
The Real Kids,
Malaria!,
Selector Dub Narcotic,
The Leaves,
Andrew Ashong & Theo Parrish,
The Beau Brummels,
Bill Near,
Mandrill,
Laurel Aitken,
U.S. Maple,
The J.B.'s,
Monolake,
Negative Approach,
Marvin Gaye,
Public Enemy,
Magazine,
The Pop Group,
June of 44,
Jerry Gold Smith,
Rahsaan Roland Kirk,
Al Stewart,
Matthew Halsall,
Swans,
The Sound,
Peter Gordon & Love of Life Orchestra,
Johnny Osbourne,
Thee Headcoats,
Gil Scott Heron,
Joensuu 1685,
Marc Almond,
Aloha Tigers,
The Doobie Brothers,
MC5,
Andrew Hill,
Eli Mardock,
Banda Bassotti,
Crooked Eye,
Terrestrial Tones,
Amazonics,
Mr. Review,
Bobby Byrd,
Marc Romboy vs. Booka Shade,
Bizarre Inc.,
The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band,
Carl Craig,
Sister Nancy,
Jandek,
The Names,
The Flesh Eaters,
The Happenings,
Leonard Cohen,
Drive Like Jehu,
Circle Jerks,
Dawn Penn,
Technova,
Gil Scott-Heron & Brian Jackson,
Joyce Sims,
K-Klass,
Sex Pistols, Sex Pistols, Sex Pistols, Sex Pistols.
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.