Why do so many people believe “everything was better in the past”? Why do they even believe it was different? My son’s grandparents are about the same age as I am – my wife is only one year younger than my daughter from my first marriage – so I constantly come across these stereotypical thoughts. My father-in-law often talks about “the good old days” – with a kind of nostalgia I can’t really understand – as if we were somehow better, smarter, more decent. As if we had never rebelled.
Complaining about the younger generation has always been a privilege of the older ones. Just like baby boomers today criticise millennials, parents in the 1920s frowned upon their “frail” daughters and “lazy, useless” sons. Maybe the only real change is that with the rise of social media, they now have the chance to comment on everything and everyone, acting like moral guardians. What’s scary is that they don’t do it out of malice – it’s just how human memory works.
Psychological research describes a phenomenon called “kids these days”: adults tend to believe that younger generations are morally weaker than they were. What’s more interesting is that intelligent adults think kids today are less intelligent, bookworms believe they don’t read enough, and people who respect authority say kids don’t respect it anymore. And there’s also something called “environmental generational amnesia” – a process that makes our unpleasant memories fade. Motivated forgetting and repression help us keep a positive self-image. That’s why so many adults who criticise young people for partying, drinking, or being too free with their sexuality have truly forgotten that they did exactly the same things. It’s easier to think of yourself as someone who has always been responsible than to face the fact that you, too, once sang drunk songs on a tram on your way to a party.
But that doesn’t mean young people today are “worse.” It only shows that every generation adapts to its own time. In the 1980s, we drank beer in block-flat house parties and listened to rock music – some of it tolerated, some banned for being rebellious. Today, they drink vodka at Campus Festival and let off steam in the streets. The shape has changed – but not the essence. Recognising this generational hypocrisy is the first step to admitting: we were young too, once. We also did things we’re “not proud of.” For me, this is easy to admit. I still remember those early years clearly – the drinking, the searching for my identity, the desperate need to find myself.
This “searching” thing is quite funny. You have a teenager who wants to rebel against everything. They want something different from their parents, because they see what they did wrong. They want to be different from everyone else, to prove they’re unique, special, one of a kind. So they grow out their hair, wear tight jeans and worn-out sneakers – because adults hate it, and that makes it perfect. They go to parties with other teens who feel the same. And slowly, without noticing, they become part of a subculture. They end up looking just like everyone else. Instead of standing out, they blend into the crowd. And when they realise it, they turn around and try something new. I’ve been a punk, a rocker, a prep, a rapper, a club kid, an alt, even a skinhead. It was easy for me – I liked all kinds of music, so switching wasn’t traumatic. But one thing’s for sure: my rebellion and my search for identity were pretty wild.
Originally, I didn’t plan this post to go this way. Two days ago, I was on a tram with a group of girls, around 15 years old. They were beautiful, young, joyful, and drunk. They drank vodka, because “that’s what they had at home,” and they talked about going out for Jäger tomorrow. I looked around and saw the disapproving, sometimes even disgusted looks from the other passengers. Not old people – just bitter, forgetful middle-aged folks. People who had either forgotten what it felt like to be young or those who missed out on the madness of their youth.
I wanted to write about them, and about the song that came to my mind because of them.
Young girls, I look at you,
I look at you and I see nothing.
Young girls, why did you do it?
You never had it – still, you lost it.
The song is over, oh young girls,
I expect nothing from this kind of love.
No, no, no, I won’t go up,
I don’t need your bodies!
No, no, no, I won’t go up,
I find pleasure on my own!
You’re a young girl, and my throat lies on your blade,
Your youth is a chain on both my hands.
Help me! Help me! This cruel excitement –
I can’t take it alone! Help me! Help me!
A nice kind of thrill. A little-little pain.
No need to resist – violate yourself.
Kneel down, if you want your life,
Don’t let me be the end of you!
Kneel down, if you want your life,
My love – use your body!
The message of Fiatal lányok is not “leave young people alone.” It’s more like: be honest with yourself about your own past. I love this song because, behind its raw sexuality, it hides a deeper meaning – one that gave many of us some kind of strength. Then again, maybe that meaning was never really there:
“Those early songs still mean the same thing to me – that the most important thing is to have fun. That’s how I feel on stage, too. When I’m up there, I don’t care who’s in government, or who’s stealing what – the misery of the world doesn’t matter in that moment. Sometimes you get annoyed when the guitar doesn’t sound right, or the mic is off… But when we play The Ball, nothing matters. If the sound is bad, I turn up the amp and scream my lungs out – and if that makes people go crazy, so be it. And with the early songs – Last Year, Young Girls – it’s the same. Sure, I’ve gotten older. But I still play The Ball like I did when I was eighteen. Maybe The Joke is different – you can’t scream that one. You have to sing it softly, because that’s when you’re talking to God – and you can only talk to God in a gentle voice.”
And yes – that’s what turns a song into a piece of art. It gives something different to each of us. To me: Disillusionment with the world. The denial of love. The rejection of emotion. Surrender. And finally, the loss of control. The release of instincts.
What if one day
God wakes up,
And it turns out
That all those “so many things”
I thought were my world
Were never real,
Just a strange dream.
A dream I loved so deeply
That I could live for it.
I paid the price many times,
But it was always worth it.
And the last one
The fourth battle still rages on the pillows,
Again and again, I die and clash with you once more.
The sweaty war of bodies ends with no defeat,
A fragile body stands face to face
With deadly love.