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 Panama and from Johannesburg.
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 1969 to 1977.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Halifax and Accra.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Johannesburg 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 1971 at the first Selda practice in a loft in Istanbul.
I was working on the 808 sounds with much patience.
I was there when Donald Fagen 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 Albert Ayler to the rock kids.
I played it at the Spitz.
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 Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band. All the underground hits.
All The Pop Group tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Saccharine Trust 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 '50s cut and another box set from the '70s.
I hear you're buying a theremin and a marimba and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Lightning Bolt record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your guitar and bought a spring reverb.
I hear that you and your band have sold your spring reverb and bought a guitar.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Marshall Jefferson,
Bobby Byrd,
Blossom Toes,
This Heat,
Sugar Minott,
Thompson Twins,
Von Mondo,
Jandek,
Loose Ends,
Subhumans,
Lou Reed & John Cale,
Lower 48,
Soul Sonic Force,
Marc Romboy vs. Booka Shade,
Wings,
The Remains,
The Searchers,
Cluster,
Jerry Gold Smith,
F. McDonald,
Gabor Szabo,
John Coltrane,
The Sonics,
the Swans,
Hot Snakes,
The Beau Brummels,
Moss Icon,
Cameo,
Joyce Sims,
Kayak,
Slave,
Michelle Simonal,
Au Pairs,
Little Man,
Chris & Cosey,
The Associates,
Rites of Spring,
Unrelated Segments,
The Evens,
Fatback Band,
Urselle,
Gang Green,
Susan Cadogan,
David Axelrod,
It's A Beautiful Day,
Blancmange,
David McCallum,
Aloha Tigers,
Rhythim Is Rhythim,
Leonard Cohen,
The Standells,
Ponytail,
Crispian St. Peters,
Oppenheimer Analysis,
Vainqueur,
Brick,
Thee Headcoats,
A Certain Ratio,
Maleditus Sound,
Gang Gang Dance,
Jimmy McGriff,
Davy DMX,
Peter and Kerry,
Wire, Wire, Wire, Wire.
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.