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 Iceland and from Woodstock.
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 1969 to 1972.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Toronto and Paris.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Copenhagen 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 1979 at the first Second Layer practice in a loft in South London.
I was working on the mellotron sounds with much patience.
I was there when David Bowie 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 Crispy Ambulance to the disco 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 Peter and Kerry. All the underground hits.
All Mad Mike tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Jeff Mills record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal techno hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '70s cut and another box set from the '90s.
I hear you're buying a linndrum and a rhodes and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a The Last Poets 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?
Albert Ayler,
Talk Talk,
The Remains,
Jacques Brel,
The Toasters,
Arab on Radar,
Minny Pops,
Rakim,
The Flesh Eaters,
Andrew Ashong & Theo Parrish,
Lindisfarne,
Warsaw,
Inner City,
The Electric Prunes,
Grauzone,
Fad Gadget,
Don Cherry,
The Fall,
KRS-One,
The Victims,
Delon & Dalcan,
Bill Near,
The Walker Brothers,
Lyres,
Alton Ellis,
New Age Steppers,
Buzzcocks,
David Bowie,
Marc Romboy vs. Booka Shade,
Cecil Taylor,
Gabor Szabo,
Maleditus Sound,
Scratch Acid,
Blancmange,
Robert Wyatt,
Porter Ricks,
Banda Bassotti,
Zapp,
Bluetip,
Dawn Penn,
Guru Guru,
Alice Coltrane,
The Skatalites,
Danielle Patucci,
Zero Boys,
The Beau Brummels,
Eric B and Rakim,
Junior Murvin,
Parry Music,
Matthew Bourne,
Half Japanese,
Peter Gordon & Love of Life Orchestra,
Avey Tare,
Livin' Joy,
The Knickerbockers,
Jerry's Kids,
Sparks,
The Peanut Butter Conspiracy,
Oneida, Oneida, Oneida, Oneida.
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.