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 St Lucia and from Mumbai.
But I was there.
I was there in 1976.
I was there at the first Buzzcocks show in Bolton.
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 1962 to 1977.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Toronto and Bremen.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Paris 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 1984 at the first Arcadia practice in a loft in London.
I was working on the rhodes 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 The Birthday Party to the rock 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 The Mojo Men. All the underground hits.
All Eve St. Jones tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Gary Puckett & The Union Gap record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal punk hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '70s cut and another box set from the '90s.
I hear you're buying a güiro and a spring reverb and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Fifty Foot Hose record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your arpeggiator and bought a marimba.
I hear that you and your band have sold your marimba and bought an arpeggiator.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
The Beau Brummels,
The Flesh Eaters,
The Doors,
Mission of Burma,
The Barracudas,
Intrusion,
Pussy Galore,
June of 44,
Sun City Girls,
These Immortal Souls,
Arab on Radar,
Popol Vuh,
Yazoo,
DJ Style,
The Blackbyrds,
Black Pus,
Underground Resistance,
Boogie Down Productions,
Roy Ayers Ubiquity,
The Skatalites,
Porter Ricks,
Gastr Del Sol,
Sister Nancy,
Lou Reed,
The Cramps,
The Stooges,
Los Fastidios,
Echospace,
Sad Lovers and Giants,
Johnny Clarke,
X-101,
Terry Callier,
Godley & Creme,
The Neon Judgement,
Pylon,
The Last Poets,
Public Image Ltd.,
New Order,
The Angels of Light,
Roxette,
Nick Fraelich,
Davy DMX,
The Human League,
Neu!,
Stockholm Monsters,
Wire,
Barrington Levy,
Jeff Lynne,
Man Eating Sloth,
Robert Görl,
Warsaw,
Terrestrial Tones,
Gang Starr,
Drive Like Jehu,
Kerrie Biddell,
World's Most,
Essential Logic,
Fifty Foot Hose,
Siglo XX,
The Busters,
Eric B and Rakim,
Section 25,
DNA, DNA, DNA, DNA.
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.