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 Cuba and from Milan.
But I was there.
I was there in 1976.
I was there at the first Chic show in New York.
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 1968 to 1970.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Johannesburg and Houston.
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 1975 at the first Ubu practice in a loft in Cleveland.
I was working on the arpeggiator 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 Camron Feat. Jay Z And Juelz to the dance 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 Cabaret Voltaire. All the underground hits.
All Reuben Wilson tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every The Alarm Clocks record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal dance 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 a linndrum and a harpsichord and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Malaria! record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your snare and bought a rhodes.
I hear that you and your band have sold your rhodes and bought a snare.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Sugar Minott,
Sandy B,
Nik Kershaw,
Strawberry Alarm Clock,
John Lydon,
Swans,
Soft Cell,
Au Pairs,
Masta Ace, Craig G, Kool G Rap, Big Daddy Kane,
Super Lover Cee & Casanova Rud,
The Evens,
Dead Boys,
Moebius,
Jacques Brel,
Amazonics,
Sly & The Family Stone,
Los Fastidios,
Youth Brigade,
The Remains,
Bronski Beat,
Massinfluence,
Model 500,
Swell Maps,
Hoover,
Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark,
The Peanut Butter Conspiracy,
Donny Hathaway,
Ajijia Myrayebe,
Minny Pops,
10cc,
Marmalade,
Eric B and Rakim,
Tears for Fears,
Ultravox,
Warren Ellis,
Steve Hackett,
Donald Byrd,
Gil Scott Heron,
Wolf Eyes,
The Dirtbombs,
Howard Jones,
Silicon Teens,
Lizzy Mercier Descloux,
Faust,
Hashim,
Ultra Naté,
Organ,
Deepchord,
Drexciya,
Darondo,
La Düsseldorf,
Gang Starr,
Bootsy Collins,
Kauko Röyhkä ja Narttu,
Gary Puckett & The Union Gap,
Josef K,
The Selecter,
Heaven 17,
Second Layer,
The Durutti Column,
Eyeless In Gaza,
Matthew Bourne,
The Move,
Country Teasers,
Mad Mike, Mad Mike, Mad Mike, Mad Mike.
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.