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 Taiwan and from Manila.
But I was there.
I was there in 1971.
I was there at the first Big Star show in Memphis.
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 1967 to 1974.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in New York and Tehran.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Delhi 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 spring reverb 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 the Soft Cell to the crunk kids.
I played it at Cafe Wha.
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 Sister Nancy. All the underground hits.
All Wolf Eyes tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Electric Light Orchestra record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal dance hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '60s cut and another box set from the '70s.
I hear you're buying a linndrum and a 808 and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Strawberry Alarm Clock record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your snare and bought a clarinet.
I hear that you and your band have sold your clarinet and bought a snare.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Strawberry Alarm Clock,
The Searchers,
The Detroit Cobras,
Jeff Lynne,
Franke,
The Beau Brummels,
Hot Snakes,
Deepchord,
The Real Kids,
Masters at Work,
Average White Band,
The Seeds,
Lalann,
Pantytec,
Arab on Radar,
Con Funk Shun,
Harry Pussy,
Brick,
Hoover,
Leonard Cohen,
Brothers Johnson,
Hardrive,
Cybotron,
Icehouse,
Carl Craig,
John Holt,
The Zeros,
Lower 48,
Pussy Galore,
T. Rex,
The Gories,
Suburban Knight,
Gregory Isaacs,
The Kinks,
The Human League,
Pharoah Sanders,
Panda Bear,
Jandek,
London Community Gospel Choir,
Warsaw,
The Moody Blues,
Das Ding,
The Barracudas,
Trumans Water,
Visage,
The Litter,
In Retrospect,
Soul II Soul,
Y Pants,
The American Breed,
Barrington Levy,
Barbara Tucker,
Fela Kuti,
Graham Central Station,
Todd Terry,
Arthur Verocai,
Ultra Naté,
Nick Fraelich,
Gian Franco Pienzio,
Howard Jones,
Crash Course in Science,
Marcia Griffiths,
The Dirtbombs, The Dirtbombs, The Dirtbombs, The Dirtbombs.
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.