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 Pakistan and from Johannesburg.
But I was there.
I was there in 1975.
I was there at the first Throbbing Gristle 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 1968 to 1974.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Calgary and Bremen.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Salvador 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 Wire practice in a loft in Watford.
I was working on the theremin 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 F. McDonald 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 Electric Light Orchestra. All the underground hits.
All Jeru the Damaja tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Metal Thangz record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal techno hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '70s cut and another box set from the '80s.
I hear you're buying a harpsichord and a marimba and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Grauzone record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your snare and bought a spring reverb.
I hear that you and your band have sold your spring reverb and bought a snare.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Black Moon,
The J.B.'s,
Max Romeo,
Flash Fearless,
The Gladiators,
The Star Department,
John Holt,
Eli Mardock,
The Leaves,
Visage,
Bobby Womack,
Sexual Harrassment,
Pierre Henry,
Stiv Bators,
Idris Muhammad,
Camberwell Now,
Tommy Roe,
Fifty Foot Hose,
Sister Nancy,
Blake Baxter,
Con Funk Shun,
the Slits,
Bob Dylan,
Magazine,
The Pop Group,
Marmalade,
Avey Tare's Slasher Flicks,
Lou Christie,
Yusef Lateef,
Suicide,
Youth Brigade,
Big Daddy Kane,
Shoche,
JFA,
Warsaw,
Dawn Penn,
Pussy Galore,
Sex Pistols,
Marine Girls,
H. Thieme,
The Walker Brothers,
Theoretical Girls,
Ronnie Foster,
Jacques Brel,
The Birthday Party,
Joensuu 1685,
The Martian,
Dual Sessions,
John Foxx,
Neil Young,
Radio Birdman,
Darondo,
Excepter,
The Sound,
Eve St. Jones,
Monolake,
Kenny Larkin,
Jeff Mills,
Brand Nubian,
Harry Pussy,
PIL,
Frankie Knuckles,
The Mummies,
Organ, Organ, Organ, Organ.
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.