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 Zimbabwe and from Tokyo.
But I was there.
I was there in 1962.
I was there at the first Guess Who show in Winnipeg.
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 1971.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Manchester and Philadelphia.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Stockholm 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 1975 at the first Throbbing Gristle practice in a loft in London.
I was working on the mellotron 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 Jimmy McGriff to the crunk 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 DJ Style. All the underground hits.
All Magma tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Gang Gang Dance record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal punk 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 spring reverb and a synthesizer and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Sexual Harrassment record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your snare and bought an oboe.
I hear that you and your band have sold your oboe and bought a snare.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Crispian St. Peters,
John Holt,
The Music Machine,
Bronski Beat,
Graham Central Station,
D'Angelo,
Joensuu 1685,
Throbbing Gristle,
Grandmaster Flash,
Joy Division,
David Axelrod,
B.T. Express,
Saccharine Trust,
Subhumans,
Panda Bear,
Joe Smooth,
Pere Ubu,
Derrick May,
The Monks,
This Heat,
Man Eating Sloth,
Malaria!,
Wire,
Alton Ellis,
The Angels of Light,
DNA,
Pantytec,
Ornette Coleman,
Pulsallama,
Bush Tetras,
Radiopuhelimet,
Kool G Rap & DJ Polo,
Buzzcocks,
The Tremeloes,
Animal Collective,
Charles Mingus,
The Kinks,
the Human League,
Gong,
The Raincoats,
Art Ensemble Of Chicago,
Duran Duran,
Grey Daturas,
ABC,
Lalo Schifrin,
John Coltrane,
Soulsonic Force,
Ronnie Foster,
Hashim,
Dawn Penn,
Rufus Thomas,
Lee Hazlewood,
Japan,
Gil Scott-Heron and Jamie xx,
Lucky Dragons,
Albert Ayler,
Harry Pussy,
Godley & Creme,
These Immortal Souls,
Stiv Bators,
Yusef Lateef,
Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds,
Henry Cow,
John Cale,
Soft Cell, Soft Cell, Soft Cell, Soft Cell.
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.