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 Russia and from Columbus.
But I was there.
I was there in 1977.
I was there at the first Zapp show in Hamilton.
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 1966 to 1974.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Glasgow and Philadelphia.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Tokyo 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 1984 at the first Arcadia practice in a loft in London.
I was working on the clarinet 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 The United States of America to the crunk 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 Tres Demented. All the underground hits.
All Harmonia tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Byron Stingily record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal grime hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '70s cut and another box set from the '80s.
I hear you're buying a theremin and a harpsichord and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Eric Copeland record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your harpsichord and bought a spring reverb.
I hear that you and your band have sold your spring reverb and bought a harpsichord.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Sugar Minott,
Man Eating Sloth,
Yazoo,
Eddi Front,
Tres Demented,
Avey Tare & Kría Brekkan,
Lou Reed & John Cale,
June Days,
Parry Music,
Toni Rubio,
Lee Hazlewood,
The Angels of Light,
Gregory Isaacs,
Jerry's Kids,
H. Thieme,
Morten Harket,
Bauhaus,
Gerry Rafferty,
Lightning Bolt,
Deakin,
Organ,
Althea and Donna,
New Age Steppers,
Tomorrow,
Louis and Bebe Barron,
Traffic Nightmare,
Skriet,
The Blackbyrds,
Connie Case,
One Last Wish,
Moss Icon,
Bobby Byrd,
Marmalade,
Monks,
These Immortal Souls,
Grauzone,
Hardrive,
Neil Young & Crazy Horse,
John Lydon,
Mo-Dettes,
Average White Band,
Kool G Rap & DJ Polo,
Crispy Ambulance,
Mandrill,
10cc,
The Busters,
Nation of Ulysses,
Sound Behaviour,
Cheater Slicks,
Hashim,
Glambeats Corp.,
Jesper Dahlbäck,
Curtis Mayfield,
The Pretty Things,
The Evens,
Arthur Verocai,
Stockholm Monsters,
Spandau Ballet,
Sam Rivers,
James White and The Blacks,
Roger Hodgson, Roger Hodgson, Roger Hodgson, Roger Hodgson.
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.