It’s the age old debate for us millennial punks; what is Green Day’s current standing in our fine culture? Most naysayers point to their sophomore album “Kerplunk” which began to draw the attention of major record companies as the moment they forsake their patch and sold out for the almighty dollar. Green Day unequivocally changed the punk genre with their mainstream debut, but was it for better or worse? It depends on who you ask. No matter what side you’re on though, we can all agree on one thing: if Green Day is still considered punk, then I should be granted visitation rights with my kids.
Now I know what you’re thinking, “Uh, Green Day is Pop Punk at best!” That may be so, but would we stand by and claim Buffalo Springfield isn’t rock simply because of their folk influence? Is Creed not post-grunge just because they’re horny for Jesus? And am I guilty of stalking and menacing my ex simply because she lives on the street I insist on taking to work each day? I defy you to stand before a judge and claim otherwise, because I’ve done just that and it did not work out in my favor.
Those in the San Francisco punk scene in the early 90s led the crusade against the band, their signing with Reprise Records being the catalyst. But even after being banned from their home club of Gilman for “selling out,” Green Day refused to never not embrace who they were, just as I did after every bar in a 10 mile radius banned me and labeled me a menace to society.
Many still consider financial success to be the hard line of punk stardom that should not be crossed. But despite my ex-wife’s similar attempts to keep me down with superfluous child support payments, I will not rest until the world at large acknowledges that Green Day can still be Punk despite me not being allowed to deliver my son his birthday present in person.
If being successful doing what you love is “selling out,” then sure, I’m guilty of selling out, specifically opioids out of my truck behind the local Wawa. But if Green Day can still exist in Punk culture after abandoning their anti-capitalist ideals, then there’s no reason my multiple “brandishing a firearm” road-rage incidents should disallow me from being a father.
So this is my final plea to the punk community and Judge Arthur Makinsky of the Gilchrist County Courthouse. Would you put my children through the same pain of missing their father that Billie Joe Armstrong endured? Let us avoid another “Wake Me Up When September Ends” by making things right: by legally forcing my children to spend time with me.