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 Solomon Islands and from Jakarta.
But I was there.
I was there in 1983.
I was there at the first Art of Noise show in London.
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 1971.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Mumbai and Woodstock.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Manchester 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 1968 at the first Can practice in a loft in Cologne.
I was working on the theremin sounds with much patience.
I was there when Nile Rodgers 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 Gang Green to the punk kids.
I played it at the Roxy.
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 Con Funk Shun. All the underground hits.
All Lafayette Afro Rock Band tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every E-Dancer record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal electroclash 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 guitar and an oboe and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Donald Byrd record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your chamberlin and bought a spring reverb.
I hear that you and your band have sold your spring reverb and bought a chamberlin.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Public Enemy,
Magma,
Flamin' Groovies,
Dr. Dre and Snoop Doggy Dog,
The Beau Brummels,
Jacques Brel,
Mr. Review,
Bluetip,
Throbbing Gristle,
K-Klass,
The Last Poets,
Connie Case,
Jesper Dahlbäck,
Depeche Mode,
DJ Style,
John Cale,
Visage,
Funky Four + One,
Ice-T,
Sun Ra,
Selector Dub Narcotic,
Fela Kuti,
Boz Scaggs,
Scion,
Bootsy's Rubber Band,
Curtis Mayfield,
Tres Demented,
Procol Harum,
The Zeros,
Gil Scott Heron,
Lucky Dragons,
Alice Coltrane,
The Dave Clark Five,
Dorothy Ashby,
The Blues Magoos,
the Fania All-Stars,
The Fall,
The Barracudas,
Sly & The Family Stone,
Donald Byrd,
Pet Shop Boys,
B.T. Express,
Crispian St. Peters,
Mars,
Scratch Acid,
Jerry's Kids,
Fatback Band,
Wighnomy Brothers & Robag Wruhme,
Fort Wilson Riot,
Sun City Girls,
The Slackers,
Brass Construction,
Sad Lovers and Giants,
The Gun Club,
Don Cherry,
Richard Hell and the Voidoids,
The Black Dice,
Adolescents,
Spoonie Gee,
Qualms,
Monolake,
Mission of Burma,
Flipper,
The Invisible, The Invisible, The Invisible, The Invisible.
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.