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 Cyprus and from Philadelphia.
But I was there.
I was there in 1968.
I was there at the first Can show in Cologne.
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 1962 to 1976.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Stockholm and Johannesburg.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Bremen 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 1971 at the first Selda practice in a loft in Istanbul.
I was working on the harpsichord sounds with much patience.
I was there when Holger Czukay 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 James White and The Blacks to the punk kids.
I played it at Trash.
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 Harpers Bizarre. All the underground hits.
All David McCallum tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Inner City 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 '80s cut and another box set from the '90s.
I hear you're buying a güiro and a linndrum and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Neil Young record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your marimba and bought a güiro.
I hear that you and your band have sold your güiro and bought a marimba.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Cymande,
Monks,
Larry & the Blue Notes,
Unwound,
Selector Dub Narcotic,
Sad Lovers and Giants,
AZ,
the Soft Cell,
Magazine,
Glenn Branca,
Wings,
Scratch Acid,
Robert Hood,
Mantronix,
Cameo,
Gerry Rafferty,
The Durutti Column,
The Selecter,
Harpers Bizarre,
One Last Wish,
Hasil Adkins,
Sexual Harrassment,
Bootsy's Rubber Band,
Circle Jerks,
Davy DMX,
Letta Mbulu,
8 Eyed Spy,
Amazonics,
Young Marble Giants,
Echospace,
Boogie Down Productions,
Marshall Jefferson,
Kaleidoscope,
Cabaret Voltaire,
Fluxion,
Sonic Youth,
Gary Puckett & The Union Gap,
DJ Style,
Dawn Penn,
Skriet,
Traffic Nightmare,
Trumans Water,
Excepter,
Television,
Shuggie Otis,
The Golliwogs,
F. McDonald,
Guru Guru,
Faust,
Danielle Patucci,
B.T. Express,
DJ Sneak,
Icehouse,
The Tremeloes,
Liaisons Dangereuses,
Robert Wyatt,
Babytalk,
Dorothy Ashby,
Second Layer,
Lizzy Mercier Descloux,
The Pretty Things,
A Flock of Seagulls,
Faraquet,
Fat Boys,
Mr. Review, Mr. Review, Mr. Review, Mr. Review.
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.