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 Australia and from Johannesburg.
But I was there.
I was there in 1971.
I was there at the first Big Star show in Memphis.
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 1970.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in London and Sao Paulo.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Shanghai 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 1971 at the first Selda practice in a loft in Istanbul.
I was working on the synthesizer sounds with much patience.
I was there when Tom Verlaine 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 Kayak to the electroclash kids.
I played it at the Astoria.
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 Royal Family And The Poor. All the underground hits.
All The Flesh Eaters tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Eric B and Rakim record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal grime hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '70s cut and another box set from the '80s.
I hear you're buying a mellotron and an organ and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Sällskapet record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your rhodes and bought a harpsichord.
I hear that you and your band have sold your harpsichord and bought a rhodes.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Nirvana,
The Offenders,
Spandau Ballet,
Marc Romboy vs. Booka Shade,
Amon Düül II,
David Bowie,
Zapp,
Ajijia Myrayebe,
Bobby Womack,
Los Fastidios,
Visage,
Sugar Minott,
Frankie Knuckles,
Brass Construction,
Soulsonic Force,
Flipper,
Cabaret Voltaire,
Jimmy McGriff,
Fear,
Easy Going,
Kurtis Blow,
Laurel Aitken,
Lee Hazlewood,
Scion,
Lakeside,
Lonnie Liston Smith,
Bobby Byrd,
The Walker Brothers,
John Cale,
Dead Boys,
Yazoo,
The Black Dice,
Black Sheep,
Inner City,
Dr. Dre and Snoop Doggy Dog,
Eric Copeland,
Depeche Mode,
New Age Steppers,
Joe Smooth,
Lucky Dragons,
Liaisons Dangereuses,
Throbbing Gristle,
Lalo Schifrin,
Kaleidoscope,
The Monks,
Young Marble Giants,
Avey Tare's Slasher Flicks,
Underground Resistance,
Curtis Mayfield,
Black Pus,
F. McDonald,
Morten Harket,
Kango’s Stein Massive,
Kerrie Biddell,
New York Dolls,
The Skatalites,
Reagan Youth,
Drive Like Jehu,
Radio Birdman,
Reuben Wilson,
John Foxx,
Scratch Acid,
B.T. Express,
Hot Snakes, Hot Snakes, Hot Snakes, Hot Snakes.
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.