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 Uganda and from Spokane.
But I was there.
I was there in 1980.
I was there at the first Cybotron 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 1960 to 1978.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Seoul and Lagos.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Woodstock 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 1976 at the first Buzzcocks practice in a loft in Bolton.
I was working on the oboe 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 The United States of America to the crunk kids.
I played it at the Crocodile.
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 Bobby Byrd. All the underground hits.
All The Searchers tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Freddie Wadling record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal rap hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '50s cut and another box set from the '70s.
I hear you're buying a clarinet and a synthesizer and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a The American Breed record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your mellotron and bought an oboe.
I hear that you and your band have sold your oboe and bought a mellotron.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
The Fortunes,
MDC,
The Dead C,
The Litter,
Khruangbin,
ABBA,
Oneida,
The Vogues,
Eurythmics,
The Young Rascals,
The Sisters of Mercy,
Cybotron,
The Searchers,
Icehouse,
Lizzy Mercier Descloux,
Pantaleimon,
The Durutti Column,
Kerrie Biddell,
Jawbox,
Funkadelic,
Q and Not U,
Model 500,
Henry Cow,
Davy DMX,
Eric Dolphy,
Soft Machine,
Banda Bassotti,
Heavy D & The Boyz,
48th St. Collective,
Unrelated Segments,
Eddi Front,
The Royal Family And The Poor,
Bobby Hutcherson,
Johnny Osbourne,
The Neon Judgement,
Urselle,
Archie Shepp,
the Sonics,
Louis and Bebe Barron,
Janne Schatter,
Deadbeat,
The Sonics,
La Düsseldorf,
Tubeway Army,
Cluster,
Rufus Thomas,
Fat Boys,
Nirvana,
Whodini,
A Certain Ratio,
The Blues Magoos,
Morten Harket,
L. Decosne,
The Walker Brothers,
Accadde A,
The Detroit Cobras,
Boredoms,
Sun Ra,
Frankie Knuckles,
Albert Ayler,
Roxette,
Clear Light, Clear Light, Clear Light, Clear Light.
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.