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 Afghanistan and from Tehran.
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 1963 to 1970.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in London and Portland.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Winnipeg 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 1983 at the first Art of Noise practice in a loft in London.
I was working on the harpsichord 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 Rahsaan Roland Kirk to the rap 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 The Sisters of Mercy. All the underground hits.
All Make Up tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Liliput 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 an arpeggiator and an oboe and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Sex Pistols record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your güiro and bought a marimba.
I hear that you and your band have sold your marimba and bought a güiro.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Chrome,
The Raincoats,
Carl Craig,
Ronnie Foster,
Mantronix,
the Fania All-Stars,
Man Parrish,
Selector Dub Narcotic,
Strawberry Alarm Clock,
Metal Thangz,
Robert Wyatt,
Byron Stingily,
The Blues Magoos,
Wire,
Sandy B,
Malaria!,
Vainqueur,
Wally Richardson,
Young Marble Giants,
The Mojo Men,
Clear Light,
Neil Young & Crazy Horse,
Graham Central Station,
Kauko Röyhkä ja Narttu,
Marcia Griffiths,
David Axelrod,
Don Cherry,
DeepChord presents Echospace,
Fugazi,
kango's stein massive,
Khruangbin,
Scion,
Harry Pussy,
The Mummies,
Lou Christie,
T.S.O.L.,
Gong,
Junior Murvin,
David McCallum,
Wasted Youth,
June Days,
Gian Franco Pienzio,
Lou Reed & Metallica,
The Remains,
Pussy Galore,
Oneida,
Joe Finger,
Pet Shop Boys,
Jeru the Damaja,
Roxette,
Maurizio,
The Mighty Diamonds,
Royal Trux,
Sun Ra,
Marc Almond,
The Beau Brummels,
The Kinks,
Sight & Sound,
Jawbox,
Peter and Kerry,
Minutemen,
Lower 48,
The Sonics,
Trumans Water, Trumans Water, Trumans Water, Trumans Water.
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.