Green Day

So, I knew I liked Green Day. I knew I liked Green Day music, I knew I liked Green Day singing on Letterman, I knew they were my pretend celebrity friends, I knew I'd buy a t-shirt at the show.

What I didn't know is how good the show would be. As in, seriously, legendarily good. As in huge and energetic in a way I can't describe. Billy Joe Armstrong isn't any of the derivitive things he's been called the past ten years. He's not punk-lite, or Baby Rotten, or faux-Brit. He's the bastard son of Charlie Chaplin, Elvis Presley and Courtney Love. He rocks, he never ever takes a break, and at the end, when he puts on a crown and cape, no one laughs. They roar.

The opening act was My Chemical Romance, who commanded me to scream and jump, neither of which I did. They attracted a very young female audience, proving once again that if fat sexually ambiguous drug addicts wanna get laid, they better not quit guitar lessons.