Green Day to Crowd: “Tonight Is a Celebration! Austin, We’re Alive!”

I've become quite reflective in my latter millennial days. It's made me appreciate so many things I either lost track of or only engaged with on the periphery of life.

One of those musical memories is Green Day. Since American Idiot, I've not really had my eye on the trio, but their show at COTA this muggy Tuesday night brought every pre-adult emotion crashing through me. Green Day was an integral part of my ability to, if not process those emotions, engage with them like an MMA fighter. Won some, lost some, but the battles 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 the young; it's only more vibrant. One of the most surprising parts of this show (for me) is the introduction of all-girl quartet the Linda Lindas. Their energy is infectious (one could say precocious, but these young ladies don't do cute, not intentionally anyway). The band ranges in age from 14 to 19. If there was ever any truth to the adage that age is simply a number, the Linda Lindas musically prove the point.

Guitarist/vocalist Lucia de la Garza (17) has a teardrop in her voice that gives her a tone that sounds like Professor Utonium took Pat Benatar, Linda Ronstadt, and Selena's most vocally ferocious tracks, then added sugar, spice, and spit. On drums, her sister Mila (14) plays like she has a storm in her limbs, the kit sounding like thunder crashes. Their cousin, bassist Eloise Wong (16), rushes the stage like she’s training to become the eighth hokage of the Leaf Village. Rounding out the ferocious foursome, Bela Salazar (19), who has a confidence and simple stage presence that speaks to her role as the group’s “elder.”

Born from the hellfire of the Go-Go's and Poly Styrene, these chicks play hard! Even a song about Salazar’s cat has bite. The set is a breathtaker. Vocals, musicianship, everything is on point. Wong punched me in the teeth with her voice. She has that vocal fry down to a science, pipes like she stepped out of a dank sewer where she existed on Chad Gray, Carolina Reaper, and Monster Energy drink.

They go into a dark and dirty protest anthem. (In case you weren't paying attention, there's the small matter of an election coming up in less than two months, and this night marks the first head-to-head battle between madame vice president and the burnt sienna Animorph.) The rage is real; even the hope that jumps in at the chorus is tinged with a patina of dread. Ending their set on this screamo stadium smasher is a stroke of genius. And Ms. Wong? Baby girl with the chainsaw in her throat is a vocal menace. Eyes closed, sweat flying, hair wild. Yeah, she and her fellow teeth-rattlers are built different. If you didn't know them before this night, you sure as hell do now!

Rancid

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

They end with "Time Bomb," after Frederiksen proclaims the band's enduring love for Austin. "We wanna thank you for the last fuckin' 33 years of our lives! Fuckin' A!" Indeed, sir. Indeed! Directly after his proclamation, we find out “Time Bomb” was a red herring. They start their actual final song, "Ruby Soho," by engaging the crowd with a chorus call-and-response, which every member of said audience happily accepts and passes with flying colors while some of our fellow attendees start skanking like 1995 in the concrete aisles of the stands. Through fists, feet, sweat, heat, and a punishing pace that didn't slow until they unplugged, Rancid was my source of comfort and encouragement.

Green Day

The lights dim. The crowd roars. In the silence before the storm, the speakers blare the most rock stadium song to ever rock, “Bohemian Rhapsody.” The scream I let out is annoying and elated: “Not them starting with ‘Bohemian Rhapsody!’” Following an unforgettable crowd sing-along, the speakers go on to play one of the most epically epic punk classics "Blitzkrieg Bop," which includes the appearance of a human adult-sized pink bunny skanking for their life and throwing merch. Before being pulled off the stage to make way for the sexiest, punkiest rendition of the “Imperial March.” What follows is a montage of the band from birth to legends.

Billie Joe Armstrong's voice remains as gorgeous as a Fullmetal Angel. And he still got the nasty in him, evidenced by him spitting something of considerable size (I choose to believe it’s gum) to the front of the stage right as he lays into the first verse of "The American Dream Is Killing Me" and absolutely violates his guitar.

Early in the set, Armstrong wraps himself in the Texas flag, then does a little booty shake shortly after divesting of it. He follows an utterly primeval guitar intro with a very convincing rendition of John Mellencamp classic "Jack & Diane." And so the set continues: pyro, explosions, an inflated fist clutching a bleeding heart (“Welcome to 20 years of American Idiot!” Armstrong yells.) In the midst of all the madness, he still makes it a point to shout out bassist Mike Dirnt and one of the most unhinged drummers alive, Tré m-fin' Cool. Armstrong also takes every opportunity to acknowledge longtime friend and business partner Jason White as well as Jason Freese, who Armstrong describes as "the comeback kid." (Freese had to sit out for a portion of the tour due to poor health).

But something happens when they dive into "Boulevard of Broken Dreams." Actually, everything happens. The last two weeks, the last two years come pouring out of me. “Boulevard” is a song that cradled me in my youth, and now it still finds me in adulthood. The flood does what it’s supposed to and cleanses me from within. (The band comes back for round two when Armstrong sings the opening line to "Wake Me Up When September Ends" with only his guitar and that damn voice.)

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

Thirty years removed from their first foray into global desecration, Green Day have only gotten louder. While their entire set is a glorious come to (insert deity of choice) moment, the most glorious of these come when Armstrong stands on top of a monitor for 30 seconds, head back, smile on his face, reveling in 30 years of adoration. Bask, baby, bask. Y'all deserve it! And it’s like this that I notice the telltale signs of their road-seasoned career. Armstrong’s signature guitar has seen some things, has nicks, scrapes, scratches yet still has the gall to smile about it. I notice the sweat that crawls down Armstrong’s face, like a tear that he sheds every time a song catches him.

Another glorious moment happens when a young fan comes on stage to sing "Know Your Enemy," after swearing to God (Armstrong's turn of phrase, not mine) that she knows the words. Let me tell you something. Little mama stole the show for a solid two minutes, proving without a shadow of a doubt that Green Day is a band spanning generations.

As the concert comes to a close, Armstrong is notably emotional. There isn’t any crying, just his steady, demanding voice shouting declarations of love, peace, and joy. “We have to think about our loved ones, our family, and those who are gone,” he says, the teardrop from the elder Gutierrez sister taking refuge in his throat. “Life doesn't last forever. So tonight we need to live! This is what it's about: a night to sing together, to dance together, to scream together. Tonight is a celebration! Austin, we’re alive!”

I may have been a fly (I like to think more of a butterfly) in the milk at this show, but in this moment, we were all united, in sweat, funk, and ever-loving 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.