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 Guinea-Bissau and from Seoul.
But I was there.
I was there in 1971.
I was there at the first Big Star show in Memphis.
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 1967 to 1978.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Lyon and Shanghai.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Houston 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 Art of Noise practice in a loft in London.
I was working on the oboe 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 Inner City to the jazz 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 Blossom Toes. All the underground hits.
All Crispian St. Peters tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every The Angels of Light record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal disco hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '60s cut and another box set from the '80s.
I hear you're buying a spring reverb and a marimba and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Lafayette Afro Rock Band 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?
Don Cherry,
Godley & Creme,
Flamin' Groovies,
Ronnie Foster,
Kaleidoscope,
Deakin,
Second Layer,
Minutemen,
Agitation Free,
the Fania All-Stars,
Bush Tetras,
Motorama,
The Busters,
The American Breed,
Alton Ellis,
The Stooges,
Gang Starr,
Amazonics,
Althea and Donna,
Rahsaan Roland Kirk,
Severed Heads,
Traffic Nightmare,
The Five Americans,
Zapp,
Brothers Johnson,
Derrick May,
The Evens,
Inner City,
Anakelly,
John Lydon,
Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark,
The Wake,
Soft Machine,
Jimmy McGriff,
Hoover,
Ten City,
Quantec,
8 Eyed Spy,
Whodini,
Reuben Wilson,
Selector Dub Narcotic,
Joyce Sims,
Piero Umiliani,
Eurythmics,
Dr. Dre and Snoop Doggy Dog,
PIL,
Aural Exciters,
Clear Light,
The Victims,
Pet Shop Boys,
Toni Rubio,
The Sonics,
The Monochrome Set,
the Germs,
The Electric Prunes,
Robert Wyatt,
Scion,
Half Japanese,
Tom Boy, Tom Boy, Tom Boy, Tom Boy.
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.