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 Luxembourg and from Houston.
But I was there.
I was there in 1979.
I was there at the first Second Layer show in South 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 1961 to 1975.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Shanghai and Glasgow.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Columbus 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 1983 at the first Lewis practice in a loft in Vancouver.
I was working on the guitar sounds with much patience.
I was there when Holger Czukay 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 Electric Prunes to the grime 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 The Human League. All the underground hits.
All Young Marble Giants tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every The Dirtbombs 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 '80s cut and another box set from the '80s.
I hear you're buying a guitar and a synthesizer and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a F. McDonald record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your marimba and bought a harpsichord.
I hear that you and your band have sold your harpsichord and bought a marimba.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Severed Heads,
Sight & Sound,
Porter Ricks,
Curtis Mayfield,
Cheater Slicks,
Mark Hollis,
Lalo Schifrin,
Avey Tare,
Siglo XX,
Marc Almond,
Man Eating Sloth,
The Busters,
World's Most,
Eve St. Jones,
The Sonics,
The Knickerbockers,
The Skatalites,
Yellowson,
Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth,
Sonny Sharrock,
Hoover,
Lee Hazlewood,
Eyeless In Gaza,
Dave Gahan,
Q and Not U,
One Last Wish,
FM Einheit,
Red Lorry Yellow Lorry,
Black Sheep,
Arcadia,
Colin Newman,
Kevin Saunderson,
The Tremeloes,
Black Flag,
Fugazi,
Masters at Work,
Lebanon Hanover,
Freddie Wadling,
Tubeway Army,
Harry Pussy,
The Five Americans,
The Residents,
Joe Finger,
The Offenders,
Quadrant,
Graham Central Station,
The Detroit Cobras,
Bootsy's Rubber Band,
Panda Bear,
Subhumans,
Rufus Thomas,
Charles Mingus,
Gian Franco Pienzio,
Althea and Donna,
Rhythim Is Rhythim,
The Birthday Party,
Oppenheimer Analysis,
Wolf Eyes,
The Fuzztones,
Von Mondo,
Sunsets and Hearts,
Liaisons Dangereuses,
Buzzcocks,
The Moody Blues,
Aloha Tigers, Aloha Tigers, Aloha Tigers, Aloha Tigers.
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.