The Sound Of My Way Out: Reflection, Alienation, and Young Turks
The Sound of My Own Way Out: Reflection, Alienation, and "Young Turks"
There is a particular kind of silence that permeated the 1990s—a pre-digital loneliness that felt heavy and immovable. As a young adult navigating that decade, I often felt like I was broadcasting on a frequency no one in my immediate orbit was tuned to. I frequently struggled trying to find a place where I felt safe and understood. Dying to get out of a home I had no business being in, art and literature were everything to me. Words and music seemed to be the only things that resonated with me. Kerouac and the “Beat Revolution” seemed so far away, but so close in my heart. A counterculture with themes I felt so drawn to that allowed the youth to explore, find themselves, celebrate their passions, and love feverishly. It’s that type of passion that I dreamed about. Before the world was connected by fiber optics and instant validation, you lived in the physical space you were born into, often feeling "seen and not heard." In the midst of that alienation, I found an unlikely lifeline in the driving, neon-pulsed rhythm of "Young Turks."
Though the song was already a decade old by the time I reached my twenties, its narrative of misunderstood youth felt more like a mirror than a memory. It was one of many songs on the soundtrack, my own quiet revolution.
\In the 90s, the cultural aesthetic was often one of irony and detached cynicism. But beneath my own outward layer of flannel and apathy was a desperate, quiet urgency that Rod Stewart’s 1981 song “Young Turks” captured perfectly. It wasn’t the syncopated drum sound, or the very 80’s keyboards, it was the anthemic theme, and words. Like “On the Road” before it, the story in “Young Turks” seemed to tell my story in a way. The idea of “young hearts be free tonight” resonated with everything my heart felt at that time. It captures that frantic, internal pressure of being young: the feeling that if you don’t leave now, the walls of your life will eventually close in for good.
I spent my early twenties trying to prove that my restlessness wasn't just a phase; it was a survival tactic. I felt alienated because I wanted more than the status quo of the era, and the violent chaos that filled my childhood home. I wanted my "young heart to be free" with sincerity, just like Stewart belted out. While I, like many others, was leaning into the gloom of the decade, I was secretly listening to Billy and Patti’s story, dreaming of a getaway that didn't involve a destination, but a person.
While I felt alienated from the world at large, my world was fundamentally shifted by a desperate and intense love for the woman who would become my wife. I met her during my sophomore year in high school in the midst of my 90s restlessness, and I was certain she’d never know who I was. My heart knew she was the only one who truly heard my frequency, even though she didn’t know it. She became the anchor to my drifting spirit.
Whenever the chorus soared with “Young hearts be free tonight,” I didn’t just think about escaping a town, a life, or the haunting shame of what I came from—I thought about her. To me, she was the freedom Stewart sang about. My dreams weren't about career milestones or material success; they were about her melding with my soul, understanding my brand of "outcast." Loving her made every other dream I’d ever harbored suddenly feel attainable.
As a young adult, everything felt slow—waiting for photos to be developed, waiting for a landline to ring, but when I was with her, my heart felt like that Stewart track: fast, breathless, and inevitable. She was the person who turned my alienation into a shared, beautiful secret. Every time that song shares its cries about pushing fear aside, I realize I was only able to do it because she was holding the other end of the map.
“Young Turks” sings that "Life is brief and time is a thief when you're undecided." Being young and lost, that line haunted me. I spent so many nights wondering if I was wasting my life in a decade that didn't seem to care about the future, and if I’d ever be able to shake my familial shame. But that changed the moment I realized I was no longer undecided. I had decided on her.
Looking back, the song’s lack of a chorus—the way the phrase "Young Turks" is never actually spoken—feels like a metaphor for my own experience. I was acting out a role I didn't yet have a name for. I was a rebel in spirit, a runaway in my heart, long before I had the confidence to claim my independence. It was her love that gave me that confidence.
Love defines every horizon. Ultimately, "Young Turks" remains the perfect reflection of a young love that is inspirational. It’s a reminder that the world belongs to those who are brave enough to love intensely despite the noise of a world that doesn't understand them.
Decades have passed since those grainy 90s nights, yet the core of my world remains unchanged. My wife wasn't just a part of my dream; she was the fulfillment of it. Even now, the sun rises and sets with her. She is the light that chased away the alienation of my youth and the peace I found at the end of the run. When I hear those opening chords today, I don’t just hear a song—I hear the sound of the moment my life finally began.
