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 Bolivia and from Salvador.
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 1969 to 1976.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in London and Shanghai.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school London 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 1977 at the first Human League practice in a loft in Sheffield.
I was working on the guitar sounds with much patience.
I was there when Michael McDonald 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 Thinking Fellers Union Local 282 to the punk 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 Gian Franco Pienzio. All the underground hits.
All Swans tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every F. McDonald record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal grunge 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 an arpeggiator and a spring reverb and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Nico record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your theremin and bought a rhodes.
I hear that you and your band have sold your rhodes and bought a theremin.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Gregory Isaacs,
Richard Hell and the Voidoids,
The New Christs,
Babytalk,
Malaria!,
Gil Scott Heron,
The Angels of Light,
Morten Harket,
Bill Near,
Monks,
These Immortal Souls,
Jacques Brel,
John Holt,
the Fania All-Stars,
Audionom,
Joe Finger,
Deutsch Amerikanische Freundschaft,
Traffic Nightmare,
Swell Maps,
the Human League,
The Move,
A Flock of Seagulls,
Cybotron,
The Blues Magoos,
Marc Almond,
Kayak,
Agent Orange,
Freddie Wadling,
Cluster,
Neu!,
La Düsseldorf,
Lonnie Liston Smith,
Jeff Lynne,
Fugazi,
Rhythim Is Rhythim,
Crispian St. Peters,
The Fire Engines,
Nick Fraelich,
Quadrant,
Surgeon,
Lou Christie,
Nation of Ulysses,
Cabaret Voltaire,
Sister Nancy,
Sun Ra,
Slick Rick,
David Axelrod,
Scrapy,
Junior Murvin,
Terry Callier,
Barbara Tucker,
The Wake,
The Neon Judgement,
the Slits,
Ultra Naté,
Beasts of Bourbon,
Flash Fearless,
Yellowson,
Funky Four + One,
Quando Quango,
10cc,
Black Pus, Black Pus, Black Pus, Black Pus.
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.