Green Day to the audience: “Tonight is a party! Austin, we live!”: The punks look back on 30 years of FSU – Music

I have become very thoughtful in my later millennia. I have appreciated many things that I had either lost sight of or only dealt with in the margins of my life.

One of these musical memories is Green Day. American IdiotI hadn't really been keeping an eye on the trio, but their show at COTA on that humid Tuesday night sent all of my pre-pubescent emotions swirling through me. Green Day was an integral part of my ability to, if not process those emotions, then at least deal with them like an MMA fighter. Some won, some lost, but the fights always had a banger soundtrack that started with “Basket Case.” We've come full circle with the Saviors tour.

The Linda Lindas

Reflection: Youth is not wasted on youth; it's just more alive. One of the most surprising parts of this show (for me) is the introduction of the all-girl quartet the Linda Lindas. Their energy is infectious (you could say precocious, but these young ladies are not cute, not intentionally anyway). The band members range in age from 14 to 19. If the saying that age is just a number was ever true, the Linda Lindas prove it musically.

Guitarist and singer Lucia de la Garza (17) has a tearful voice that gives her a tone that sounds like Professor Utonium took the wildest vocals of Pat Benatar, Linda Ronstadt and Selena and then added sugar, spice and spit. Her sister Mila (14) plays the drums like she has a storm in her limbs and the drums sound like thunder. Her cousin, bassist Eloise Wong (16), storms the stage like she's training to become the eighth Hokage of the Leaf Village. Rounding out the wild quartet is Bela Salazar (19), whose confidence and simple stage presence suits her role as the “eldest” of the group.

Born from the hellfire of Go-Go's and polystyrene, these chicks play hard! Even a song about Salazar’s cat has bite. The set is breathtaking. Vocals, musicianship, everything is on point. Wong blew me away with her voice. She has perfected that vocal sound, a voice as if she had emerged from a dank sewer where she lived on Chad Gray, Carolina Reaper and Monster Energy Drinks.

They break into a dark and dirty protest anthem. (In case you weren't paying attention, there's an election in less than two months, and tonight marks the first head-to-head between Madame Vice President and the Sienna-Burnt Animorph.) The anger is real; even the hope that rises in the chorus is coated with a patina of fear. Closing their set with this stormy stadium smash is a stroke of genius. And Ms. Wong? The little girl with the chainsaw in her throat is a vocal menace. Eyes closed, sweat splattering, hair wild. Yes, she and her fellow teeth-chatterers are built differently. If you didn't know her before tonight, you certainly do now!

Rancid

Why did these elder statesmen come on the stage and immediately start talking shit? Damn! 2024 really is the year of lessons, eh? Old heads are coming back to give baby musicians (anyone who's been performing professionally for less than a decade) a masterclass in energy, musicianship, and longevity. Rancid is another group that has taken their place in the discography of my terrified prepubescent heart, if only with a song or two. When they scream in my chest about tomorrow's immortality, I know they're talking to me. The same could be said about the moshers in the pit and the headbangers in the seats next to me. Reflection: Tomorrow is a destination, not time. I'm still here, and maybe I shouldn't be. But Lars Frederiksen said I have another day, and another, and another. All my mornings have led me here for a reason.

They finish with “Time Bomb” after Frederiksen proclaims the band’s enduring love for Austin. “We want to thank you for the last 33 fucking years of our lives! Damn!” Indeed, sir. Indeed! Immediately after his declaration, we realize that “Time Bomb” was a red herring. They begin their actually last song, “Ruby Soho,” by engaging the crowd with a chorus call-and-response that every member of said audience happily accepts and handles with aplomb, while some of our fellow attendees start dancing in the concrete aisles of the stands like it's 1995. With fists, feet, sweat, heat, and a blistering pace that didn't let up until they pulled the plug, Rancid were my source of comfort and encouragement.

Green Day

The lights dim. The crowd roars. In the stillness before the storm, the speakers blare out the rockiest stadium song ever: “Bohemian Rhapsody.” The scream I let out is annoying and joyful: “Not the ones that start with 'Bohemian Rhapsody'!” After an unforgettable sing-along from the crowd, the speakers play one of the most epic punk classics, “Blitzkrieg Bop,” in which a grown man appears with a pink bunny fighting for his life and throwing merchandise. Before he is dragged off the stage to make way for the sexiest, punkiest rendition of “Imperial March.” What follows is a montage of the band from birth to legend.

Billie Joe Armstrong's voice is still as great as a Fullmetal Angel. And he still has some evil in him, which you can see when he spits something pretty big (I think it's bubble gum) to the front of the stage as he launches into the first verse of “The American Dream Is Killing Me” and completely rapes his guitar.

At the beginning of the set, Armstrong wraps himself in the Texas flag and shortly afterwards shakes his butt. An absolutely primal guitar intro is followed by a very convincing rendition of the John Mellencamp classic “Jack & Diane”. And so the set continues: pyrotechnics, explosions, a pumped-up fist clutching a bleeding heart (“Welcome to 20 years of American idiot!” shouts Armstrong.) Amid all the madness, he makes a point to praise bassist Mike Dirnt and one of the craziest drummers in the world, Tré m-fin' Cool. Armstrong also takes every opportunity to acknowledge longtime friend and business partner Jason White, as well as Jason Freese, whom Armstrong describes as “the comeback kid.” (Freese had to sit out part of the tour due to health issues.)

But something happens when they delve into “Boulevard of Broken Dreams.” everything happened. The last two weeks, the last two Years pours out of me. “Boulevard” is a song that lulled me in my youth, and now it still finds me as an adult. The tide does what it’s supposed to, cleansing me from within. (The band comes back for round two as Armstrong sings the opening line to “Wake Me Up When September Ends,” with just his guitar and that damn Agree.)

Reflection: I may be leaning in impossible directions, seeking a perfection I'll never achieve. But I'm not broken. (Also: Depression sucks. Stop romanticizing it.)

Thirty years after their first foray into global desecration, Green Day have only gotten louder. While their entire set is a glorious moment of (insert any deity here, please) coming to oneself, the most glorious moment is when Armstrong stands on a monitor for 30 seconds, head back, smile on his face, reveling in 30 years of admiration. Enjoy it, baby, enjoy it. You all deserve it! And so I notice the telltale signs of their tour-hardened career. Armstrong's guitar has been through a lot, has scrapes, scratches and scrapes, but it still has the nerve to smile about it. I notice the sweat creeping down Armstrong's face like a tear he sheds every time a song captivates him.

Another great moment is when a young fan comes on stage to sing “Know Your Enemy” after swearing to God (Armstrong's wording, not mine) that she knows the words. Let me tell you something. The little mama stole the show for a full two minutes, proving beyond a doubt that Green Day is a band that spans generations.

As the concert draws to a close, Armstrong is visibly emotional. He doesn't cry, just his strong, demanding voice screams declarations of love, peace and joy. “We have to think of our loved ones, our family and those who are gone,” he says, as the older Gutierrez sister's tear finds refuge in his throat. “Life doesn't last forever. That's why we have to live tonight! That's what it's about: a night to sing together, dance together, scream together. Tonight is a celebration! Austin, we live!”

I may have been a fly (I prefer to think of it as a butterfly) in the milk at that show, but in that moment we were all united, in sweat, funk and our eternal love of punk rock. The men of Green Day were indeed saviors. Thank you, Linda Lindas; Rancid; and of course Billie Joe Armstrong, Mike Dirnt and (say it with me now) Tré m-fin' Cool.