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 Macedonia and from Madrid.
But I was there.
I was there in 1976.
I was there at the first Chic show in New York.
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 1962 to 1975.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Halifax and Spokane.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Spokane 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 1971 at the first Big Star practice in a loft in Memphis.
I was working on the sitar 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 Jeff Mills to the dance 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 Major Organ And The Adding Machine. All the underground hits.
All The Men They Couldn't Hang tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Roxette 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 '80s.
I hear you're buying a guitar and a clarinet and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Porter Ricks record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your arpeggiator and bought a harpsichord.
I hear that you and your band have sold your harpsichord and bought an arpeggiator.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Lindisfarne,
Kaleidoscope,
K-Klass,
The Victims,
48th St. Collective,
Bizarre Inc.,
Gil Scott-Heron and Jamie xx,
Matthew Halsall,
Jesper Dahlbäck,
Joe Finger,
Lungfish,
The Grass Roots,
Mission of Burma,
PIL,
Donny Hathaway,
Avey Tare & Kría Brekkan,
Man Eating Sloth,
Archie Shepp,
The Motions,
John Cale,
Faraquet,
Y Pants,
Ten City,
Kerrie Biddell,
Warsaw,
Marc Romboy vs. Booka Shade,
Babytalk,
Peter and Kerry,
cv313,
Wolf Eyes,
Eurythmics,
Black Bananas,
Livin' Joy,
The American Breed,
Black Sheep,
Arthur Verocai,
Zero Boys,
The Associates,
Oneida,
Camouflage,
Black Pus,
Crispian St. Peters,
Sun Ra Arkestra,
The Detroit Cobras,
Gang of Four,
The Electric Prunes,
Eli Mardock,
Little Man,
Niagra,
Bobby Sherman,
DJ Style,
Aural Exciters,
Deutsch Amerikanische Freundschaft,
Reagan Youth,
MDC,
EPMD,
Graham Central Station,
Quadrant,
Vladislav Delay,
The Fire Engines,
Boogie Down Productions,
Barry Ungar, Barry Ungar, Barry Ungar, Barry Ungar.
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.