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 Ireland and from Winnipeg.
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 1964 to 1970.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Sao Paulo and Portland.
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 1967 at the first Rodriguez practice in a loft in Detroit.
I was working on the mellotron 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 Barbara Tucker to the grime kids.
I played it at CBGB's.
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 Skatalites. All the underground hits.
All Deutsch Amerikanische Freundschaft tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Skaos record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal jazz 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 synthesizer and a güiro and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a X-101 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?
Mad Mike,
The Smoke,
Newcleus,
The Fall,
Big Daddy Kane,
Juan Atkins,
Joy Division,
Bobbi Humphrey,
Y Pants,
The Neon Judgement,
Black Pus,
Darondo,
Mark Hollis,
The Golliwogs,
Howard Jones,
Quando Quango,
Bob Dylan,
Procol Harum,
Eden Ahbez,
Steve Hackett,
Eric B and Rakim,
Harpers Bizarre,
Ossler,
Vladislav Delay,
Audionom,
Connie Case,
The Gun Club,
Kayak,
Jacob Miller,
PIL,
Amon Düül II,
Jeff Mills,
The Gladiators,
Soulsonic Force,
The Fortunes,
Scrapy,
Carl Craig,
The Leaves,
Section 25,
The Count Five,
Television,
The Red Krayola,
The Sisters of Mercy,
Kaleidoscope,
Sugar Minott,
Smog,
Flamin' Groovies,
Public Image Ltd.,
Joe Smooth,
Tomorrow,
Marcia Griffiths,
8 Eyed Spy,
Kango’s Stein Massive,
John Holt,
Bootsy's Rubber Band,
The Fugs,
Selector Dub Narcotic,
Glambeats Corp.,
Saccharine Trust,
A Certain Ratio,
This Heat,
U.S. Maple,
Nas, Nas, Nas, Nas.
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.