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 Haiti and from Johannesburg.
But I was there.
I was there in 1978.
I was there at the first Visage 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 1969 to 1971.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in London and Sao Paulo.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Lagos 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 1979 at the first Second Layer practice in a loft in South London.
I was working on the organ 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 Popol Vuh to the funk kids.
I played it at the Roxy.
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 Jesus and Mary Chain. All the underground hits.
All Sandy B tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Fifty Foot Hose record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal disco hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '70s cut and another box set from the '90s.
I hear you're buying a güiro and a synthesizer and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Siouxsie and the Banshees record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your clarinet and bought a spring reverb.
I hear that you and your band have sold your spring reverb and bought a clarinet.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
A Flock of Seagulls,
The Cure,
T. Rex,
Ituana,
Wighnomy Brothers & Robag Wruhme,
New York Dolls,
Gabor Szabo,
Panda Bear,
Sixth Finger,
Josef K,
Lee Hazlewood,
Rufus Thomas,
the Association,
Selector Dub Narcotic,
Icehouse,
Country Teasers,
Scott Walker,
Charles Mingus,
Lakeside,
Public Enemy,
Be Bop Deluxe,
Kaleidoscope,
Kool G Rap & DJ Polo,
Ronan,
Parry Music,
48th St. Collective,
The Monks,
Cecil Taylor,
Gil Scott Heron,
Duran Duran,
F. McDonald,
Delon & Dalcan,
Peter Gordon & Love of Life Orchestra,
Yusef Lateef,
Moss Icon,
Kango’s Stein Massive,
Jacques Brel,
Arcadia,
Eyeless In Gaza,
Crooked Eye,
The Blackbyrds,
Art Ensemble Of Chicago,
June Days,
Roy Ayers Ubiquity,
Rites of Spring,
Pharaoh Sanders and the Fire Engines,
The Beau Brummels,
The Slits,
Graham Central Station,
Cameo,
Easy Going,
Don Cherry,
Babytalk,
Magma,
Echo & the Bunnymen,
Little Man,
Dark Day,
Johnny Osbourne,
Basic Channel,
It's A Beautiful Day,
These Immortal Souls,
Arthur Verocai,
Joy Division,
Jandek,
The Flesh Eaters, The Flesh Eaters, The Flesh Eaters, The Flesh Eaters.
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.