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 Equatorial Guinea and from Bologna.
But I was there.
I was there in 1975.
I was there at the first Throbbing Gristle 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 1961 to 1970.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Milan and Toronto.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Tehran 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 chamberlin 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 Sister Nancy to the jazz kids.
I played it at the 40 Watt.
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 These Immortal Souls. All the underground hits.
All Echospace tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every H. Thieme 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 '80s cut and another box set from the '70s.
I hear you're buying an oboe and a snare and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Liaisons Dangereuses record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your arpeggiator and bought an organ.
I hear that you and your band have sold your organ and bought an arpeggiator.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Desert Stars,
Letta Mbulu,
The Saints,
Wasted Youth,
Alphaville,
Skaos,
Selector Dub Narcotic,
Pere Ubu,
Harpers Bizarre,
Lalann,
Bootsy Collins,
the Swans,
Blancmange,
The Star Department,
Porter Ricks,
Justin Hinds & The Dominoes,
Jawbox,
the Germs,
Stetsasonic,
Godley & Creme,
Eve St. Jones,
Minor Threat,
Chris Corsano,
Sight & Sound,
Boz Scaggs,
The Trojans,
Lower 48,
Siouxsie and the Banshees,
Pet Shop Boys,
The Mighty Diamonds,
the Human League,
Dark Day,
K-Klass,
La Düsseldorf,
Jeff Mills,
Thompson Twins,
The Fire Engines,
The Electric Prunes,
The Monks,
Bang on a Can All-Stars,
Angry Samoans,
Con Funk Shun,
June Days,
Swell Maps,
Cybotron,
Blossom Toes,
Crooked Eye,
Lakeside,
Matthew Halsall,
Saccharine Trust,
Johnny Osbourne,
Subhumans,
Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five,
Rod Modell,
Jacques Brel,
Gerry Rafferty,
Intrusion,
Sandy B,
Reuben Wilson,
Qualms,
Bootsy's Rubber Band,
Marc Romboy vs. Booka Shade,
Bobby Womack,
The Leaves,
Roger Hodgson, Roger Hodgson, Roger Hodgson, Roger Hodgson.
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.