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 Malawi and from Tokyo.
But I was there.
I was there in 1977.
I was there at the first Human League show in Sheffield.
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 1964 to 1972.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Spokane and Copenhagen.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Shanghai 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 1968 at the first Bowie practice in a loft in Bromley.
I was working on the guitar 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 R.M.O. to the jazz kids.
I played it at Cafe Wha.
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 Fear. All the underground hits.
All Sad Lovers and Giants tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Steve Hackett record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal punk hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '60s cut and another box set from the '70s.
I hear you're buying a güiro and a guitar and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Sparks record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your marimba and bought a harpsichord.
I hear that you and your band have sold your harpsichord and bought a marimba.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Blossom Toes,
cv313,
The Tremeloes,
Black Pus,
A Flock of Seagulls,
Magma,
The Music Machine,
Intrusion,
The Standells,
Schoolly D,
The Alarm Clocks,
Steve Hackett,
Don Cherry,
The Fall,
Gong,
T. Rex,
Louis and Bebe Barron,
X-Ray Spex,
Todd Terry,
Ultimate Spinach,
Joy Division,
The Searchers,
Jerry Gold Smith,
John Holt,
Skaos,
Gang Gang Dance,
Tropical Tobacco,
DJ Style,
Man Eating Sloth,
The Walker Brothers,
Roxette,
ABBA,
Tim Buckley,
Fad Gadget,
Justin Hinds & The Dominoes,
Nils Olav,
Prince Buster,
Shuggie Otis,
The Modern Lovers,
Selector Dub Narcotic,
Big Daddy Kane,
Aural Exciters,
Soulsonic Force,
Sad Lovers and Giants,
Hot Snakes,
Pharaoh Sanders and the Fire Engines,
Mark Hollis,
Derrick May,
It's A Beautiful Day,
Oneida,
Judy Mowatt,
Pussy Galore,
Flipper,
Fela Kuti,
The Peanut Butter Conspiracy,
Arab on Radar,
James White and The Blacks,
Robert Wyatt,
the Bar-Kays,
Bobby Byrd,
Nirvana,
Hashim,
Max Romeo, Max Romeo, Max Romeo, Max Romeo.
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.