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 Djibouti and from Lagos.
But I was there.
I was there in 1976.
I was there at the first Soft Boys show in Cambridge.
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 1979.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Bologna and Lille.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Johannesburg 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 at the first Suicide practice in a loft in New York.
I was working on the marimba sounds with much patience.
I was there when Donald Fagen 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 Harry Pussy to the punk kids.
I played it at the 40 Watt.
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 Yaz. All the underground hits.
All Gil Scott-Heron and Jamie xx tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Das Ding record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal electroclash hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '60s cut and another box set from the '90s.
I hear you're buying a spring reverb and an arpeggiator 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 a harpsichord.
I hear that you and your band have sold your harpsichord and bought a snare.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Magazine,
Ice-T,
Bang On A Can,
The Victims,
Letta Mbulu,
Nick Fraelich,
James White and The Blacks,
Barrington Levy,
Con Funk Shun,
Camouflage,
Angels of Light & Akron/Family,
Lucky Dragons,
Television,
Grauzone,
Iggy Pop,
Bang on a Can All-Stars,
The Doobie Brothers,
Stereo Dub,
Neu!,
Wighnomy Brothers & Robag Wruhme,
The Busters,
Agitation Free,
Can,
Marvin Gaye,
Camberwell Now,
Tommy Roe,
Piero Umiliani,
Delon & Dalcan,
It's A Beautiful Day,
Buzzcocks,
Gong,
Marc Romboy vs. Booka Shade,
Max Romeo,
The Searchers,
the Fania All-Stars,
The Index,
The Blues Magoos,
John Lydon,
Dawn Penn,
Jerry's Kids,
The Kinks,
Ronnie Foster,
The Divine Comedy,
Sound Behaviour,
Pole,
Gil Scott-Heron and Jamie xx,
Chrome,
The Dave Clark Five,
Avey Tare's Slasher Flicks,
Sun Ra Arkestra,
Oppenheimer Analysis,
The Toasters,
The Selecter,
Gil Scott-Heron & Brian Jackson,
Jeru the Damaja,
Amon Düül,
Sex Pistols,
Minnie Riperton,
Lou Christie,
Bad Manners,
Das Ding,
U.S. Maple, U.S. Maple, U.S. Maple, U.S. Maple.
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.