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 Algeria and from Taipei.
But I was there.
I was there in 1984.
I was there at the first Arcadia 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 1967 to 1970.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Shanghai and Lagos.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Lille 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 1973 at the first Television practice in a loft in New York.
I was working on the sitar sounds with much patience.
I was there when Captain Beefheart 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 Dr. Dre and Snoop Doggy Dog to the electroclash kids.
I played it at the Astoria.
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 Vladislav Delay. All the underground hits.
All Gang Green tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Letta Mbulu record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal rock hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '80s cut and another box set from the '70s.
I hear you're buying a chamberlin and a sitar and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Bang On A Can record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your chamberlin and bought a spring reverb.
I hear that you and your band have sold your spring reverb and bought a chamberlin.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Gang of Four,
Organ,
Alphaville,
Marshall Jefferson,
Bobby Hutcherson,
Kas Product,
Moss Icon,
Wasted Youth,
R.M.O.,
Terror Squad Feat. Camron,
T.S.O.L.,
Richard Hell and the Voidoids,
Tropical Tobacco,
DJ Sneak,
Unwound,
Radio Birdman,
Thompson Twins,
Lightning Bolt,
Fat Boys,
Magazine,
Vladislav Delay,
Basic Channel,
Al Stewart,
Ultimate Spinach,
Ajijia Myrayebe,
The Slits,
Nik Kershaw,
Soul II Soul,
Maurizio,
Bauhaus,
Boredoms,
Pantytec,
Yusef Lateef,
Arcadia,
Camberwell Now,
Monks,
Masters at Work,
The Move,
Young Marble Giants,
Harry Pussy,
Yazoo,
Dark Day,
Ultramagnetic MC's,
Robert Hood,
Neu!,
Lee Hazlewood,
The Black Dice,
Hot Snakes,
Lou Reed,
Jacques Brel,
Zapp,
Colin Newman,
Radiohead,
Hoover,
Marc Almond,
The Fuzztones,
Intrusion,
Juan Atkins,
Bang on a Can All-Stars,
The Alarm Clocks, The Alarm Clocks, The Alarm Clocks, The Alarm Clocks.
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.