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 Dominica and from Columbus.
But I was there.
I was there in .
I was there at the first Suicide show in New York.
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 1968 to 1976.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Tokyo and Philadelphia.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Mexico City 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 1983 at the first Art of Noise practice in a loft in London.
I was working on the organ 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 Anthony Braxton to the grime kids.
I played it at the Troubador.
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 Ultramagnetic MC's. All the underground hits.
All The Men They Couldn't Hang tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Scott Walker record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal funk hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '70s cut and another box set from the '80s.
I hear you're buying a clarinet and a güiro and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a David Bowie record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your harpsichord and bought a 808.
I hear that you and your band have sold your 808 and bought a harpsichord.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Unwound,
A Flock of Seagulls,
Unrelated Segments,
The American Breed,
Drive Like Jehu,
Bobby Womack,
Visionaries,LMNO, T- Love & Iriscience,
Morten Harket,
Negative Approach,
B.T. Express,
Alison Limerick,
The Doors,
Outsiders,
The Modern Lovers,
Jimmy McGriff,
Jacques Brel,
Jeru the Damaja,
Howard Jones,
Letta Mbulu,
Amon Düül II,
Aural Exciters,
Oblivians,
Ralphi Rosario,
The Stooges,
Mary Jane Girls,
Flipper,
The Barracudas,
Dead Boys,
Mantronix,
Hasil Adkins,
Khruangbin,
Maurizio,
Anthony Braxton,
David Bowie,
Lonnie Liston Smith,
The Dead C,
The Tremeloes,
Glambeats Corp.,
Monks,
Soul Sonic Force,
Sandy B,
Roy Ayers,
Cal Tjader,
Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth,
Gastr Del Sol,
Con Funk Shun,
Angry Samoans,
Pet Shop Boys,
Metal Thangz,
Bobbi Humphrey,
Deepchord,
The Sisters of Mercy,
Stiv Bators,
Siglo XX,
Pharoah Sanders,
Fugazi,
E-Dancer,
H. Thieme,
Rahsaan Roland Kirk,
the Fania All-Stars,
Kerri Chandler,
Scratch Acid, Scratch Acid, Scratch Acid, Scratch Acid.
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.