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 Ghana and from Beijing.
But I was there.
I was there in 1968.
I was there at the first Can show in Cologne.
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 1978.
I'm losing my edge.
To all the kids in Winnipeg and Lyon.
I'm losing my edge to the art-school Calgary 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 1970 at the first Onyeabor practice in a loft in Enugu.
I was working on the linndrum 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 The Alarm Clocks to the grunge kids.
I played it at the Hacienda.
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 John Coltrane. All the underground hits.
All The Fall tracks. I heard you have a vinyl of every Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five record on German import.
I heard that you have a white label of every seminal crunk hit - 1985, '86, '87.
I heard that you have a CD compilation of every good '80s cut and another box set from the '80s.
I hear you're buying an organ and an arpeggiator and are throwing your macbook out the window because you want to make something real. You want to make a Teenage Jesus and the Jerks record.
I hear that you and your band have sold your harpsichord and bought an arpeggiator.
I hear that you and your band have sold your arpeggiator and bought a harpsichord.
I hear everybody that you know is more relevant than everybody that I know.
But have you seen my records?
Black Pus,
Al Stewart,
Alphaville,
Ultra Naté,
Patti Smith,
Skaos,
Mr. Review,
Lungfish,
Crispian St. Peters,
Panda Bear,
Fugazi,
Con Funk Shun,
Urselle,
The Count Five,
Clear Light,
L. Decosne,
The Barracudas,
Dorothy Ashby,
The Leaves,
Bill Wells,
Moebius,
In Retrospect,
Hot Snakes,
London Community Gospel Choir,
Swell Maps,
Barbara Tucker,
The Zeros,
Beasts of Bourbon,
Rekid,
Electric Prunes,
The Alarm Clocks,
kango's stein massive,
Fatback Band,
Hashim,
Masta Ace, Craig G, Kool G Rap, Big Daddy Kane,
Bobby Hutcherson,
Gang of Four,
These Immortal Souls,
Fort Wilson Riot,
Fifty Foot Hose,
48th St. Collective,
Mad Mike,
Terry Callier,
The Kinks,
Siglo XX,
Liaisons Dangereuses,
Lizzy Mercier Descloux,
New York Dolls,
Heavy D & The Boyz,
This Heat,
Visage,
Warsaw,
Lucky Dragons,
Spandau Ballet,
Lee Hazlewood,
Barclay James Harvest,
Brass Construction,
The American Breed,
John Holt,
Sight & Sound,
Be Bop Deluxe,
Eric Dolphy,
Suicide,
Eric Copeland,
Pere Ubu, Pere Ubu, Pere Ubu, Pere Ubu.
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.