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 Serbia and from Jakarta.
But I was there.
I was there in 1965.
I was there at the first Beefheart show in Lancaster.
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 1964 to 1978.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Spokane and Woodstock.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Toronto 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 1976 at the first Chic practice in a loft in New York.
I was working on the chamberlin 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 The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band to the disco 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 The Sisters of Mercy. All the underground hits.
All Donald Byrd tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Magma 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 '50s cut and another box set from the '70s.
I hear you're buying a clarinet and a sitar and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Crispian St. Peters record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your theremin and bought a rhodes.
I hear that you and your band have sold your rhodes and bought a theremin.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Ludus,
The Fuzztones,
Maurizio,
The Toasters,
Gang of Four,
Art Ensemble Of Chicago,
James White and The Blacks,
Schoolly D,
Unwound,
Faraquet,
The Barracudas,
Unrelated Segments,
10cc,
Heaven 17,
Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark,
Easy Going,
Toni Rubio,
The Fire Engines,
Simply Red,
The Monks,
Second Layer,
Whodini,
The Slackers,
Byron Stingily,
Lalann,
The Raincoats,
Ronnie Foster,
Sex Pistols,
The New Christs,
The Divine Comedy,
John Foxx,
Avey Tare's Slasher Flicks,
Jerry Gold Smith,
Fat Boys,
The Moleskins,
Brick,
China Crisis,
F. McDonald,
Glambeats Corp.,
The Gladiators,
Das Ding,
Pantaleimon,
Roy Ayers Ubiquity,
Barrington Levy,
Scientists,
Monks,
Suburban Knight,
Flipper,
The Golliwogs,
Eli Mardock,
Man Parrish,
Barry Ungar,
Judy Mowatt,
The Offenders,
Lonnie Liston Smith,
OOIOO,
John Coltrane,
De La Soul & Jungle Brothers,
The Litter,
Guru Guru,
Franke,
The Kinks, The Kinks, The Kinks, The Kinks.
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.