The constant denial in which two people may or may not live stems from a symptom called tunnel vision—when a person spends their whole life focused solely on what matters to them, and tangible facts become real problems, demanding attention for any significant progress.
–So you switched from E-flat to a scale between C and D, and adjusted it to a more melodic tone. Billy added a touch of slowness, – said Josh Roibert, watching as "Basket Case" transformed from a punk anthem into a memorable rock ballad. Both versions were good—no winners, just good music.
–Are you saying that's a good thing or a bad thing? – asked Michael Ocklars, now fully immersed in the world of rock, starting to study how the entire process of building a song worked. Music filled their souls, especially when each song was played with care. They began deconstructing their own tracks and pushing them to unfamiliar places—enchanted, even—infusing voices never meant for such melodies, now reborn to be sung in new ways.
–Look closely—he stretches his voice at the end of the last verse, just as the drums push forward. And when they do, the guitar cuts in two-thirds of the way through. And right when the guitar's about to drop, it comes back—two quick chords that fill everything with harmony, – explained Josh Roibert.
…
Minutes earlier.
–Let's do it again, – said Billy.
–But this time, a bit faster, – replied Billie Joe.
–Alright, I'll be the singer, and you take the guitar, – said Billy.
–Only if you're the guitarist on the next one, – Billie said with a smirk.
Both rockers nodded—they were in an environment where confidence was still being built, and they'd do whatever it took to settle into that groove and throw themselves into the music.
–A darle, – Billy said in Spanish. He loved it when languages mixed. A good song, a good rumor—something to focus on, where voices could merge in pure fury.
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
Do you have the time to listen to me whine?
About nothing and everything, all at once
I am one of those melodramatic fools
Neurotic to the bone, no doubt about it
Sometimes I give myself the creeps
Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me
It all keeps adding up
I think I'm cracking up
Am I just paranoid or am I just stoned?
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶 🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
...
It was an unspoken rule that rehearsals never happened separately—feeling how everything clicked was a mutual demand. They fought for that raw, organic energy. It was like a pulse colliding with a star; when it hit, you knew if it was a success or a total failure. Experience made even unnoticed things suddenly matter deeply.
That's why Billy poured all his knowledge into giving the song soul—paradise—and embracing that strange personality he'd come to rely on while singing. Like surfing, it was about dancing in calm waters for minutes or even hours, especially when the waves stayed hidden. That was the beauty.
...
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶 🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
I went to a shrink, to analyze my dreams
She said it's lack of sex that's bringing me down
I went to a whore, he said my life's a bore
So quit my whining 'cause it's bringing her down
Sometimes I give myself the creeps
Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me
It all keeps adding up
I think, I'm cracking up
Am I just paranoid?
I don't know
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶 🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
Using that contradiction he found, he filled the song with youthful yearning. It was no surprise the track was old—back then, the band really was just a group of kids chasing their dreams. And that's why he delivered it the way he liked—charged with desperation. Maybe that's what his singing always conveyed: light and deep desperation, accompanied by color, street dancing, and controversial themes he was always drawn to.
He used the imagery of parties, fantasy, fanfare, and those late-night debates that always followed awkward conversations. When he wanted to finish something, he did it perfectly. That kind of success filled his heart with a sense of purpose.
The song had everything punk was supposed to be, so he sang with enough power to shake the entire room, raw, with a bite that most people weren't ready for. But it was the sound of someone desperate.
...
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶 🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
Grasping to control
So I better hold on
Sometimes I give myself the creeps
Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me
It all keeps adding up
I think I'm cracking up
Am I just paranoid?
Or am I just stoned?
🎶🎵🎵🎵🎵🎵🎶
–Well done. Damn, – said Billie.
–Who the hell pissed you off, kid? – asked Tré Cool.
Billy laughed but looked up and stared at Tré Cool, knowing deep down he probably had demons beginning to take root, forgetting what truly mattered.
–No one I know of, – Billy replied. Burned out on the inside. Healthy on the outside. His body was a temple, his mind a sea of nightmares.
–Well, if you give us another take like that, I'll let you sing some of my choruses, – Billie Joe said, looking at him with new eyes. The flavor Billy left behind was like hot kerosene—ready to ignite from his mouth.
–When I sing, I want everyone to hear. I just do it, – murmured Billy, taking a sip of water. His throat was dry—he'd been singing nonstop all afternoon.
–So, what do you guys think? – he asked the band.
–You're fucking good, man, – Billie replied.
They dove into the next track as the album they were shaping started to hit hard. Each song felt like a sack of stones. Green Day spent two months doing everything they could to get it right—studying the sounds in depth. Billy, though a total wild card, never stopped humming each piece of his songs in his mind.