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 Tuvalu and from Lagos.
But I was there.
I was there in 1967.
I was there at the first Rodriguez show in Detroit.
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 1965 to 1971.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Jakarta and Manchester.
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 1965 at the first Beefheart practice in a loft in Lancaster.
I was working on the theremin sounds with much patience.
I was there when Captain Beefheart 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 Blackbyrds to the crunk kids.
I played it at the Spitz.
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 Kerrie Biddell. All the underground hits.
All Fifty Foot Hose tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every David McCallum 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 '80s cut and another box set from the '80s.
I hear you're buying a rhodes and a guitar and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a The Mummies record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your harpsichord and bought a spring reverb.
I hear that you and your band have sold your spring reverb and bought a harpsichord.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Maurizio,
The Moody Blues,
Chris Corsano,
Essential Logic,
Tommy Roe,
The Associates,
Roxy Music,
The Saints,
Cheater Slicks,
Crispian St. Peters,
The Shadows of Knight,
Minnie Riperton,
Liliput,
Andrew Hill,
Jawbox,
Don Cherry,
Sugar Minott,
Camouflage,
Radiohead,
CMW,
Animal Collective,
Selector Dub Narcotic,
Faust,
Hoover,
Roy Ayers,
B.T. Express,
Warren Ellis,
Yellowson,
John Foxx,
The Slits,
Inner City,
Nick Fraelich,
The Index,
Fatback Band,
Lalo Schifrin,
Bluetip,
Ronnie Foster,
The Barracudas,
Sun City Girls,
Theoretical Girls,
Tropical Tobacco,
Pet Shop Boys,
The United States of America,
Ultimate Spinach,
Aloha Tigers,
The Invisible,
John Holt,
Cameo,
A Flock of Seagulls,
Joe Finger,
Can,
Supertramp,
Joey Negro,
Albert Ayler,
Basic Channel,
The Flesh Eaters,
James White and The Blacks,
Johnny Clarke,
Soft Machine,
The Victims,
Lucky Dragons,
Minny Pops, Minny Pops, Minny Pops, Minny Pops.
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.