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 Kyrgyzstan and from Jakarta.
But I was there.
I was there in 1968.
I was there at the first Bowie show in Bromley.
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 1966 to 1972.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Bremen and Portland.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Cairo 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 Chic practice in a loft in New York.
I was working on the harpsichord sounds with much patience.
I was there when Robert Palmer 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 Fortunes to the dance kids.
I played it at the Hacienda.
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 Oppenheimer Analysis. All the underground hits.
All The Buckinghams tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Howard Jones record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal rock hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '50s cut and another box set from the '90s.
I hear you're buying a synthesizer and a harpsichord and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a The Detroit Cobras record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your rhodes and bought a chamberlin.
I hear that you and your band have sold your chamberlin and bought a rhodes.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
New York Dolls,
JFA,
The Saints,
Tim Buckley,
Grauzone,
Louis and Bebe Barron,
Roxy Music,
Bill Wells,
Groovy Waters,
Chrome,
Niagra,
The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band,
The Golliwogs,
Aloha Tigers,
UT,
Gian Franco Pienzio,
Sun City Girls,
The Busters,
Ludus,
Procol Harum,
Unwound,
Little Man,
Minutemen,
The Residents,
Reuben Wilson,
China Crisis,
F. McDonald,
Alton Ellis,
The Gun Club,
Blancmange,
Country Teasers,
Sällskapet,
Angry Samoans,
Black Bananas,
Röyhkä ja Rättö ja Lehtisalo,
Marcia Griffiths,
Livin' Joy,
Sparks,
Camouflage,
The Monks,
Joe Finger,
Los Fastidios,
Vladislav Delay,
Sandy B,
the Human League,
Animal Collective,
Gerry Rafferty,
Lower 48,
Fugazi,
The Sonics,
Oppenheimer Analysis,
Y Pants,
The Techniques,
The Detroit Cobras,
Big Daddy Kane,
Ultra Naté,
Gong,
Bill Near,
Graham Central Station,
MC5,
Public Enemy,
The American Breed,
The Mojo Men,
The Pretty Things, The Pretty Things, The Pretty Things, The Pretty Things.
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.