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 Palau and from Madrid.
But I was there.
I was there in 1976.
I was there at the first Buzzcocks show in Bolton.
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 1976.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Salvador and Mumbai.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Stockholm 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 1975 at the first Throbbing Gristle practice in a loft in London.
I was working on the marimba 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 Swell Maps to the grime kids.
I played it at the Roxy.
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 Little Man. All the underground hits.
All Index tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Deutsch Amerikanische Freundschaft record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal disco hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '50s cut and another box set from the '80s.
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 Fort Wilson Riot record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your rhodes and bought an organ.
I hear that you and your band have sold your organ and bought a rhodes.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
The Buckinghams,
Moby Grape,
Ice-T,
Jacob Miller,
The Litter,
The Star Department,
the Sonics,
A Flock of Seagulls,
Section 25,
Frankie Knuckles,
Organ,
The Pop Group,
Andrew Ashong & Theo Parrish,
Underground Resistance,
Bootsy's Rubber Band,
The Smiths,
Fort Wilson Riot,
The Cowsills,
Al Stewart,
Altered Images,
ABBA,
Anakelly,
Junior Murvin,
Tim Buckley,
Sexual Harrassment,
The Fugs,
Niagra,
The Evens,
Nick Fraelich,
The Five Americans,
F. McDonald,
Bill Wells,
Jandek,
Todd Rundgren,
Bizarre Inc.,
The Detroit Cobras,
Severed Heads,
Gil Scott Heron,
The Offenders,
Au Pairs,
Zapp,
Model 500,
June of 44,
Oblivians,
K-Klass,
Pantaleimon,
Moss Icon,
Public Enemy,
Bobbi Humphrey,
Tropical Tobacco,
Newcleus,
Ralphi Rosario,
Mary Jane Girls,
Mo-Dettes,
Zero Boys,
Harry Pussy,
Kerrie Biddell,
Scientists,
The Dead C,
Swans,
Faraquet,
Ultravox, Ultravox, Ultravox, Ultravox.
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.