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 Lesotho and from Lyon.
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 1960 to 1971.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Jakarta and Jakarta.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Bremen 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 2001 at the first Tiga practice in a loft in Montreal.
I was working on the synthesizer sounds with much patience.
I was there when Robert Palmer 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 Stockholm Monsters to the punk kids.
I played it at Trash.
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 Lafayette Afro Rock Band. All the underground hits.
All Circle Jerks 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 funk hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '50s cut and another box set from the '90s.
I hear you're buying a mellotron and a snare and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a T. Rex record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your rhodes and bought a spring reverb.
I hear that you and your band have sold your spring reverb and bought a rhodes.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Sandy B,
Kerri Chandler,
Cecil Taylor,
Howard Jones,
the Human League,
Joey Negro,
The Seeds,
The Victims,
Yazoo,
The Peanut Butter Conspiracy,
Iggy Pop,
Brothers Johnson,
Curtis Mayfield,
Desert Stars,
The Pop Group,
Royal Trux,
Yaz,
Clear Light,
The Vogues,
FM Einheit,
KRS-One,
Excepter,
The Blues Magoos,
June Days,
Radio Birdman,
New Age Steppers,
Johnny Clarke,
Fort Wilson Riot,
Fear,
Sun City Girls,
Black Sheep,
The Moody Blues,
Marine Girls,
Smog,
Gang of Four,
The Zeros,
Freddie Wadling,
Massinfluence,
X-Ray Spex,
Bush Tetras,
Ponytail,
Siglo XX,
Unrelated Segments,
Sly & The Family Stone,
Eddi Front,
Nik Kershaw,
Pantaleimon,
Rosa Yemen,
Symarip,
The Kinks,
Dead Boys,
Rotary Connection,
Terry Callier,
The Dave Clark Five,
Outsiders,
A Certain Ratio,
John Cale,
The Residents,
X-101,
Prince Buster, Prince Buster, Prince Buster, Prince Buster.
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.