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 Israel and from Stockholm.
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 1964 to 1979.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Sao Paulo and Columbus.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Salvador 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 oboe 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 Throbbing Gristle to the jazz kids.
I played it at the Crocodile.
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 Radiohead. All the underground hits.
All Buzzcocks tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Pharaoh Sanders and the Fire Engines record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal disco 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 sitar and a rhodes and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Spoonie Gee record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your sitar and bought a spring reverb.
I hear that you and your band have sold your spring reverb and bought a sitar.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Thinking Fellers Union Local 282,
Ralphi Rosario,
Erykah Badu,
Bootsy's Rubber Band,
Crispian St. Peters,
The Blackbyrds,
Piero Umiliani,
Quando Quango,
Warsaw,
The Cure,
Marc Romboy vs. Booka Shade,
Main Source,
Second Layer,
Marmalade,
Nas,
Avey Tare's Slasher Flicks,
The Chocolate Watch Band,
Underground Resistance,
Bang on a Can All-Stars,
Crooked Eye,
John Foxx,
Soul Sonic Force,
Scan 7,
Lindisfarne,
Nik Kershaw,
Saccharine Trust,
Supertramp,
Kerri Chandler,
Black Sheep,
Black Flag,
Flamin' Groovies,
Iggy Pop,
Brothers Johnson,
Television Personalities,
Monks,
Lucky Dragons,
Barbara Tucker,
Marcia Griffiths,
The Fall,
The Shadows of Knight,
Scratch Acid,
David Axelrod,
Silicon Teens,
Marshall Jefferson,
10cc,
Angels of Light & Akron/Family,
Michelle Simonal,
Grey Daturas,
Colin Newman,
Eve St. Jones,
X-Ray Spex,
Derrick May,
Leonard Cohen,
Lou Reed,
The Zeros,
The Fortunes,
Sad Lovers and Giants,
Sex Pistols,
Sällskapet,
Gerry Rafferty,
JFA,
The Skatalites,
Aswad,
Suicide,
Tres Demented, Tres Demented, Tres Demented, Tres Demented.
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.