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 Tajikistan and from Madrid.
But I was there.
I was there in 1962.
I was there at the first Guess Who show in Winnipeg.
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 1969 to 1976.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Paris and Shanghai.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Portland 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 1967 at the first Rodriguez practice in a loft in Detroit.
I was working on the mellotron 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 Moss Icon to the crunk kids.
I played it at Trash.
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 The Smiths. All the underground hits.
All H. Thieme tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every The Black Dice 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 '50s cut and another box set from the '70s.
I hear you're buying a marimba and a snare and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Brick record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your harpsichord and bought a güiro.
I hear that you and your band have sold your güiro and bought a harpsichord.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Buzzcocks,
The Kinks,
Tom Boy,
Index,
JFA,
Todd Terry,
The American Breed,
Heaven 17,
Lindisfarne,
Fad Gadget,
Bobbi Humphrey,
T. Rex,
Minutemen,
Main Source,
Popol Vuh,
Lungfish,
Beasts of Bourbon,
Pussy Galore,
Ituana,
Jeru the Damaja,
World's Most,
Black Pus,
Boz Scaggs,
K-Klass,
OOIOO,
FM Einheit,
Throbbing Gristle,
Nik Kershaw,
The Durutti Column,
Bootsy Collins,
Scott Walker + Sunn O))),
The Zeros,
Jeff Mills,
Harry Pussy,
Amon Düül,
The Royal Family And The Poor,
Royal Trux,
Sound Behaviour,
Wire,
Alton Ellis,
Peter & Gordon,
Deakin,
Deutsch Amerikanische Freundschaft,
Eric Copeland,
Crime,
The Names,
The Men They Couldn't Hang,
The Grass Roots,
The Blackbyrds,
Fatback Band,
Crispian St. Peters,
The Cowsills,
the Germs,
The Mighty Diamonds,
Warren Ellis,
Supertramp,
Roy Ayers,
Vladislav Delay,
Altered Images,
MDC,
Alphaville,
The Slits,
the Bar-Kays, the Bar-Kays, the Bar-Kays, the Bar-Kays.
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.