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 Ecuador and from Lille.
But I was there.
I was there in 1975.
I was there at the first Throbbing Gristle show in London.
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 1970.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Seoul and Mumbai.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Cairo 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 Zapp practice in a loft in Hamilton.
I was working on the mellotron sounds with much patience.
I was there when Michael McDonald 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 Das Ding to the dance 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 Teenage Jesus and the Jerks. All the underground hits.
All Lizzy Mercier Descloux tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Andrew Hill record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal rap hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '60s cut and another box set from the '90s.
I hear you're buying an organ and a linndrum and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a The Angels of Light 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?
Unwound,
The Men They Couldn't Hang,
The Shadows of Knight,
Black Flag,
Henry Cow,
Leonard Cohen,
David Axelrod,
Joe Smooth,
Shoche,
Flash Fearless,
Harry Pussy,
Severed Heads,
Harpers Bizarre,
It's A Beautiful Day,
Sällskapet,
Bad Manners,
Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds,
Wolf Eyes,
Section 25,
Louis and Bebe Barron,
Fugazi,
Sam Rivers,
The Gories,
Jeff Lynne,
cv313,
Morten Harket,
Be Bop Deluxe,
Gerry Rafferty,
Crispian St. Peters,
Wings,
Richard Hell and the Voidoids,
The Gun Club,
Josef K,
The Gladiators,
John Cale,
Ronan,
The Young Rascals,
Bang on a Can All-Stars,
Piero Umiliani,
ABBA,
Ken Boothe,
Electric Light Orchestra,
Rahsaan Roland Kirk,
Livin' Joy,
Anthony Braxton,
The Vogues,
The Dirtbombs,
Ultravox,
Essential Logic,
Rod Modell,
Soulsonic Force,
Hoover,
Teenage Jesus and the Jerks,
Mars,
The Names,
Derrick May,
Television,
Porter Ricks,
The Monochrome Set,
Nils Olav,
Desert Stars, Desert Stars, Desert Stars, Desert Stars.
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.