Gençlik İle Elele: Mustafa Özkent Classification: World Subclassification: Europe Subsubclassification: Turkey [subject to review] Release: 1973 Reissue: 2006 Question: Should Mustafa Özkent's masterpiece be reclassified to Hipster status? Argument for: As much as we claim to be a citizen of the world, and we think that claim to be justifiable to a certain extant - we admit that we aggrandize from time to time. We are at the very least a pledge to the world citizen's brigade (which if actually exists, please forgive me for any bad press this may bring, and does membership include sponsorships to live in various countries?). Yes, we have traveled a bit. But, we have not been to Turkey. We have this album because we picked it up in a hispterish and trendy area of London. Argument against: We also acknowledge padding our resume a bit, but damn it! The Vatican is its own sovereign nation and we think that it counts. It a baker's dozen does make. Sure, sure. We also acknowledge a humble brag feels good now and again. That market in London was hella cool, hipster Mecca during the peak of millenialism. We had the pick of fifteen different food trucks inside some industrial era warehouse, repurposed and upscaled with such meticulous perfection it felt authentic. Think late 19th Century Steam Punk Victorians with iPods. Do you remember how we picked the Cachorro Quente? Delicious? Yes. However, when you put a hot dog in a thick ketchup sauce, slap it on a brioche bun and top it with potato sticks it tends to pop the exoticism of travel. We bought the record at that market. It was in the Turkish section. Verdict: I am not convinced either way. It is true that it is a living anecdote of our hipster journey: denial, fierce denial, secret acceptance with public denial, open acceptance, absolute immersion, oneness, to meta fracturing (kaleidoscopic hipsterism: looking at the era of the hipster with a nostalgic bent, thus completing the circle and returning hipsterdom to its rightful place, irony). We are trying to be a voice of that return to whimsical irony, inside jokes to ourselves that somehow make sense to like-minded souls. It was in the Turkish section, but it was reissued by British Hipsters. Would it be out of place in the Classification: World. Subclassification: Europe. Subsubclassification: United Kingdom? I don't think that is the logical place for it, but an argument can be made for it. As such, we will leave it in the listed classification, subclassification and subsubclassification while reserving the right to revisit. God knows there are other hipster issues forthcoming. Third album review (typewriter edition). Third album from 1973. Three in a row to begin the whole exercise! As a mystic, I must stop being surprised by these things. Here's how to express the inexpressable, the spirit of the music says to me, Herbie Hancock came to me by Chris Farley (God rest his soul). Pink Floyd came to me by my father. The irony came to me from above, whatever that may mean. It was my destiny to come of age in such heady, heady times to be served a hot dog for twelve quid by a Carioca. Upscaled and exoticized basic food stuff? Check. Overpriced? Check. Served on biodegradable flatware? Check. Food truck? Check. Bonus points: food truck in old upscaled warehouse. Vintage music? Check. Need I go on? It was the draw of hipsterism that led me to that market. It was the hubris of that hipsterism that led me to eating a hot dog. It was the joyous and jubilant madness of that hipsterism that allowed me to believe that the emperor's clothes were indeed beautiful and the Cachorro Quente was something completely new. Mystics are not prophets. I don't want that kind of responsibility. The British Hipster, subsubclassification: Neo-Mod. had the album in the Turkish section. That's good enough for me. A prophet speaks truths that are to come to pass. A mystic speaks truths as well as he is able given both their skill and the ineffability of the truth experienced. The false prophets (visionaries) must be killed - their evil must be purged. Mystical truths are easily lost in translation by nature of the ineffability of the truth; and, at least at this stage in my life, the lack of transmission skills. For example, this paragraph seems to have all the qualities of a sledgehammer when I'm trying to offer a whimsical panegyric on hispterdom in general. We shall move on, try and catch back up with the crazy vibe swings of the record. Vibes began with a Surf Rock, the mystical truth of Scooby Doo comes to me. Vibes kind of waned as the second song started. I glanced down at the track list on the record sleeve. Seated at my typewriter pondering the insane number of diacritics amongst the individual songs, how can I explain this? How can I express the inexpressible? Close your eyes for a moment. Actually, don't do that. Imagine that you are closing your eyes. Imagine that you are young and watching Scooby Doo. It is past your bedtime and your mother has been warning you for at least ten minutes that she will come turn the television off. Her threats increase in intensity with each and every twist and turn of the episode. The final commercial break comes at the worst opportunity ever. You can hear your mother's footsteps above you. They are walking slowly, ominously above you. Pacing. You don't want that new nerf gun on the commercial. You already have the Nickelodeon Magazine subscription. You do not care what Mork and Mindy or Happy Days are doing on Nick at Nite in five minutes. No, all you want to know who is behind the mystery at the abandoned amusement park, the recently haunted park, coinciding with some developer trying to buy it. You are understanding the odious and evil nature of the world. You must know the why behind the world's fall from grace that this particular episode encapsulates so well. Isn't that right, Shaggy? You hear the door between the basement and the kitchen opening as Fred announces that the spook has been snagged by some simple contraption, even though the contraption (physical or metaphorical - take your pick) didn't work the way it was planned to. Just as you are about to see the why, to make sense of the evil and chaos your mother presses the power button on the remote control just as Fred unmasks the villain - who would have gotten away with it if not for those darn kids, by the way. You raise your voice to the sky, cast your protestations and pleadings at the ceiling fan, they are as likely to grant your petition as your mother. Who was the spook? You will forever think about it, but through the fog of time you will assume that you know, you will have seen all of the Scooby Doo episodes there are (of the original run), will you not? Surely you have seen them all? Thus, you must know who that particular spook is. But can you prove it? Can you put this question to bed? No. You cannot. You are now left with the choice of obtaining and rewatching every single episode of the original Scooby Doo knowing that you will have to watch from a scientific standpoint that will rob you of all enjoyment or to live with the gnawing doubt. That was the feeling I had when I had begun to review Gençlik İle Elele by Mustafa Özkent only to discover the graves, umlauts, palatal hooks, O My! That was the decision I faced. I am, in essence, scientifically rewatching Scooby Doo. As I was sitting in contemplation of the logistics associated with the diacritical madness the third song came on. I was immediately whisked away to Speed Racer. A smile stretched on my face as I felt the wind, sitting shotgun aside the titular character in his Mach 5. We were speeding through the record, digging the grooves together. Suddenly we saw a sign that said fork in the road. One way led to the eternal pastures of Saturday Morning cartoons. The other way led to the hairy Seventies' porno scene. We looked at the sign; then at each other. All I could say was, "Go, Speed Racer, go!" I'm still not sure which way I wanted him to take. Moral of the story, don't be so diactrical on the diacritics. Embrace the hipsterdom. Push the hipsterdom into dadjoke territory. You may lose a little shock value in reclaiming the irony.
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