You know who this band is. I ranked their albums.

12. ¡Tré!

The bottom of the barrel in every respect - ten of its twelve songs are profoundly forgettable exercises in basic power-chord wank. They’re overproduced to the point of soullessness, blandness, like a well-done steak devoid of any flavor. Billie Joe sounds bored, aside from on the soulful opener “Brutal Love,” on which he delivers one of his best vocal performances. That’s one of two tracks worth listening to, along with “Dirty Rotten Bastards,” a fun multi-part mini-epic intentionally crafted as a successor to “Jesus of Suburbia.”

The rest is pointless. “A Little Boy Named Train” has electric guitars and drums; it’s a song. I’m not being vague, that’s really all that can be said about it. “99 Revolutions” tries desperately to be a rallying cry for the then-current Occupy Wall Street protesters but ends up about as politically literate as the rest of their late-period work - in other words, not at all. Final track “The Forgotten” is exactly what it sounds like. It’s a miserable end to what was a disappointing trilogy to begin with.

11. Revolution Radio

It’s a shame the trilogy flopped, because otherwise, we would have gotten something much different than this. “Bang Bang” is good party punk, and “Still Breathing” is good Warped-core (rare). The rest is listless, phoned-in, by-the-numbers arena rock, the kind we’ve grown accustomed to expecting from the group. Nothing’s memorable; a few tracks even sound like watered-down retreads of previous songs (“Youngblood” is “She’s a Rebel” v1.5). The opener “Somewhere Now” tries to set the mood for the album with some kind of Quadrophenia-lite rock opera grandiosity, and falls completely flat. Much as the ‘00s albums they’re trying to emulate were defined by vague, timorous pseudo-political lyrics, there’s no clear message to be found here beyond “authority sucks and stuff.” That album title (which would have been cliché a decade ago) is fittingly lazy and generic.

10. American Idiot

I’m probably gonna get shit on by mid-2000’s emo purists for ranking this so low. But hear me out. It’s not a good album. Yes, “Jesus of Suburbia” kicks ass, and yes, “Holiday” is perfect for late-night car-ride singalongs with your friends - but the album as a whole just isn’t good. When BJ’s not romanticizing suicide and drug abuse, he’s giving us three chords and vague, unfocused complaints about some kind of post-9/11 malaise of suburban America rather than Bush’s administration itself, sounding a lot like a middle-schooler that just got banned from the mall. He’s better than this.

Like every album on the latter half of this list, it’s not without its high points - “Letterbomb” is perhaps the most literate track on the whole affair, with its dystopian landscape of corrupt clergymen and widespread illness/poverty offering the most coherent idea of what Billie Joe was so angry about in 2004. Fan favorite “Give Me Novacaine” is the closest to the Smiths the band’s ever sounded (good thing? Bad thing? Good, in this case).

9. ¡Uno!

I’ll start with the bad: “Oh Love,” the first single released from this first installment of the trilogy, is the absolute, undeniable nadir of this kind of pop rock. It’s an enigma. It’s bafflingly hookless, tuneless, soulless. You can find catchier music in an elevator; you can find more interesting lyrics on a bottle of Perrier. I’m actually angry right now. I’m listening to Pearl Jam as I type this and it sounds better than fucking “Oh Love”.

The second half of the album is rife with the same blandness - “Angel Blue,” “Sweet 16,” “Rusty James” - in the five years since this album’s release, they’ve already become forgotten, untouched fossils of the B side. There are some gems to be found on the first half, though, like the lecherous, new wave-y dance-punk number “Kill the DJ” (I like it, leave me alone) and the upbeat power pop of opener “Nuclear Family.” Unfortunately, they’re outnumbered by all the filler. At the very least, the album’s carefree spirit and intentional frivolity was a breath of fresh air after the dourness and headiness of the previous two rock operas.

8. 21st Century Breakdown

American Idiot’s successor and counterpart is usually considered the lesser of the two - it’s obviously nowhere near as iconic, and its singles “Know Your Enemy” and “21 Guns” haven’t endured for as long as “Holiday” and “Wake Me Up When September Ends” have. While, at 18 tracks, it has more lows (the god-awful “See the Light,” the equally god-awful “Before the Lobotomy”) than Idiot, its highs are higher. “East Jesus Nowhere” remains the magnum opus of their pseudo-political output, a vitriolic attack on religious fundamentalism and hypocrisy; “Peacemaker,” immediately following “Jesus”, is a punchy Latin-influenced tune full of wordplay and hey-hey-heys - it sounds unlike anything the band had ever done at that point. They rarely venture outside of the realm of three-chord pop-punk and stadium rock; if this track is any indication of what could be, they should explore some more.

7. ¡Dos!

Inexplicably considered the low point of the trilogy, this middle installment is naturally miles from their best, but it’s for sure unfairly maligned. Much of the derision is directed at its two most audacious cuts - “Fuck Time,” a sleazy, explicit garage rock ode to fucking, and “Nightlife,” their first (and, to date, only) foray into pop-rap. There’s understandably lots to complain about there. But beyond them, there’s lots to like.

At its worst, it sounds like the Stooges on Disney Channel; at its best, it sounds like a more polished and refined continuation of the garage rock sound Billie, Mike, and Tré reveled in with their side project, the Foxboro Hot Tubs (if I counted side projects, their sole album Stop, Drop, and Roll!!! would without question be in the top 5 of this list). Some of their best post-Warning tracks can be found here - there’s “Stray Heart,” Motown-y and irresistible, and “Amy,” a solemn tribute to the late Amy Winehouse, easily the group’s best ballad since “Macy’s Day Parade”. On “Lady Cobra,” the band delivers two minutes of no-frills, Hives-esque garage rock, and they sound so good one wishes they’d drop Green Day for a while and deliver more Foxboro Hot Tubs.

6. nimrod.

I’m about to be that guy that drops one of those tired White Album comparisons. Here goes: nimrod is Green Day’s White Album. Sorry. I’m also about to be that guy that drops one of those less tired, but just as lazy Sandinista! comparisons - nimrod is Green Day’s Sandinista!. I think the latter is more appropriate - instead of going in a kind of “Revolution 9” route and dabbling in the experimental and the avant-garde, they tried a breadth of more accessible genres: ska, surf, power pop, folk - and apart from the annoyingly tryhard displays of edginess “Platypus (I Hate You)” and “Take Back,” it works.

There aren’t many songs in their catalog more deserving of concert-staple anthem-ification than “King for a Day;” they’ve played it at most shows since ‘97 and it has yet to become stale. If you’ve ever attended a graduation ceremony of any kind, you’ve heard “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” before; if you haven’t gotten tired of it yet, you probably love it. “Haushinka,” easily the best track on the album, was written in ‘93 for Dookie but left off for whatever reason, and it shines here - the unaffected lyricism that was a trademark of younger Billie Joe’s songs on Lookout Records is immediately identifiable. “Will she ever find her way? / I'm too damn young to be too late, but am I?”

5. Insomniac

Made as a reaction to all the negative critical responses Dookie garnered, this is the closest to punk they’ve ever sounded (sorry Billie Joe, I know you hate the “pop-punk” label but let’s be real here). Much more abrasive than its predecessor but just as hook-filled, Insomniac is primarily remembered for “Brain Stew,” a drugged-out, shambolic hangover anthem with an instantly recognizable riff. “Geek Stink Breath,” an equally disheveled song, is perfectly sludgy and ugly (try to watch its music video without looking away, I dare you). The album gets a little too on-the-nose at points; “I must insist on being a pessimist,” he sings on opener “Armatage Shanks;” “The world is a sick machine breeding a mass of shit,” on “Panic Song.” That’s only a mild gripe of mine, though - those are two of the album’s highlights, and some of their best post-Lookout work.

4. Warning:

From Dookie to nimrod, Billie Joe made a name for himself and the band by whining - about boredom, about apathy, about being young. (This isn’t a criticism.) On Warning, he evolved from whining to scolding and pop-philosophizing - gone are the ugly snarl of “Brat” and the couch-potato lethargy of “Longview,” replaced by jabs directed at the young and vain (“Fashion Victim”) and meditations on rampant materialism on “Macy’s Day Parade,” one of the overlooked treasures of their discography. Surprisingly, there’s also a sincere, wide-eyed joie de vivre, something that was unfortunately absent from their music since Dookie, on “Waiting,” a simple-worded pop rock celebration of wish fulfillment that exudes feelgood-ness from start to finish. The album’s not completely free of old-fashioned, snotty pop-punk, though; “Minority” is a brash declaration of individuality in the face of traditionalism, full of lines like “A free for all, fuck ‘em all / You’re on your own side.”

3. Dookie

Some of it has dated pretty badly - nobody that looks back on this album ever talks about how fucked up “Having a Blast,” sung from the perspective of (and unnervingly sounding almost in support of) a suicide bomber, is. It wasn’t okay back then, and it’s not okay now. Other than that, this is pretty deserving of its classic status - there’s a reason this was the record that made them overnight successes.

“Longview” is bassist Mike Dirnt’s own personal “Moby Dick,” showcasing his talent with that genius, eminently hummable bassline (conceived on acid, according to his and Billie Joe’s own story). “Basket Case,” a single that will forever evoke a collage of mental images involving Beavis and Butt-head and the MTV logo, has rightfully endured for much longer than many of its 90’s pop-punk contemporaries (remember Fenix TX? No?). Even the songs on the second side that could be considered “filler” (“Sassafras Roots,” “In the End”) are very good at worst and great at best.

2. 1,039/Smoothed Out Slappy Hours

I know, I know, this is a compilation and 39/Smooth is the original, but I’m counting this one because so many people know and consider this the definitive version of the debut. So, this entry counts 39/Smooth, 1000 Hours, Slappy, and “I Want to Be Alone”. Released on independent Bay Area punk label Lookout Records when Billie Joe and Mike were each 18 years old, Smoothed is as great as debuts get.

When people complain about lifers like NOFX’s Fat Mike and Wheatus/Jimmy Eat World’s Rivers Cuomo writing songs with adolescent themes well into their forties, they’re yearning for the kind of lyrical authenticity you find on Smoothed - Billie Joe likely wrote a good chunk of these lyrics right at his desk in class at Pinole Valley High. Listen to “409 in Your Coffeemaker,” an inward-looking, earnest apology to one of his teachers for his former self’s shitheaded pranks, and you can practically see its verses scrawled in the margins of a notebook page alongside doodles and notes from a history lesson. Or “Disappearing Boy,” and hear the pangs of alienation every misfit kid has felt at a red Solo cup house party at some point or another. Or “16,” and be reminded of what it was like to suddenly feel the crushing weight of responsibility out of nowhere at that age. The list goes on. And I’m going to continue to read it, because I have way too much to say about this glorious record. Bear with me.

A few years before “dude weed lmao” culture sprung up thanks to Sublime (admittedly a great band) and 311 (admittedly a band), Billie Joe wrote a song called “Green Day.” It’s an innocent love letter to the leaf that facilitates vegging out and admiring the beauty around you; it should be cringeworthy, it should be annoying in a Dude, Where’s My Car kind of way, but it’s not - it works so well.

One of the reasons why this adolescent Billie Joe was so endearing was his sweetness and good-heartedness: unlike a number of his contemporaries, he never seemed angry or bitter about the “friend zone” or some other bullshit that young men like to complain about - on “Paper Lanterns,” he expresses his sorrow over unrequited feelings, but never regards the object of his desire as less than autonomous. This purity and wholesomeness was lost after their move to a major label in ‘94, and the young voice with a bright outlook heard on this album was replaced by a jaded snarl. It’s missed.

1. Kerplunk!

I’ve said so many things about this record over the 10+ years that I’ve known and loved it that I’m almost running out of original remarks to make. I’ve sung its praises for so long my throat’s starting to wear. I just typed out a novella for Smoothed, and it’s ranked second - that should say a lot about how I feel about this album. I don’t even know where to begin. How about I break it down track-by-track? Cool? Cool.

First, there’s “2000 Light Years Away,” about the constant longing that comes with a long-distance relationship - significant in that it’s the first song of many that Billie Joe wrote about his then-girlfriend and now wife, Adrienne. It kicks off with “I sit alone in my bedroom staring at the walls / I've been up all damn night long, my pulse is speeding, my love is yearning.” These lines are painful, in the best sense of that term. It’s a great, emotive opener. Following it is “One for the Razorbacks,” a song Lloyd Dobler probably could have played outside Diane Court’s house if he showed up with a Strat in lieu of a boombox. “Welcome to Paradise,” re-recorded for Dookie two years after its debut here, benefits from this relatively tin-can production sound as opposed to Dookie’s cleaner tone - the scruffiness of it all (Billie Joe even stumbles on wording a bit in the second verse) fits the song, about growing accustomed to a shitty, slummy area, perfectly. Serving as a counter to this is “Christie Road,” one of the best songs ever written about the comfort of familiar hometown spots. “If there’s one thing that I need that makes me feel complete / So I go to Christie Road, it's home, it's home.” Next is “Private Ale,” my personal favorite Green Day song. Genius.com and a bunch of other sources say it’s about “stalking a girl and masturbating outside of her window,” but I don’t buy that for a second. Billie Joe sounds too earnest, too wholesome, for this to be a song about yanking it in public. “I wander down these streets all by myself, Think of my future now I just don't know / I don't seem to care,” he sings, and you can almost see the gleam in his eyes. I’m fully aware that I sound fucking corny - I stopped worrying about corniness a while ago.

After the levity of “Dominated Love Slave,” a rowdy bluegrass parody about kinky desires, we get “One of My Lies,” which sees Billie Joe at his most brutally honest - contradicting the careless, future-disregarding self you just heard on “Private Ale,” here he’s confronting his own mortality, pointing out his own shortcomings, even having a crisis of faith. “Why does my life have to be so small? Yet death is forever / And does forever have a life to call its own?” Twenty-six years later, it’s still the most mature he’s ever sounded. On “80,” he loses his mind, questioning his own sanity on account of the aforementioned Adie. “Android,” another existential crisis song, prods and pokes at mortality again - when will I die? How long will I live? Am I doing things right?

“No One Knows,” with a Mike Dirnt bassline better than even “Longview,” never loses its emotional impact, and is one of the best songs in the band’s catalog (you know what, just assume that I consider every song on this album one of the best in their catalog). “Who Wrote Holden Caulfield?,” BJ’s ode to The Catcher in the Rye’s protagonist, shows just how like-minded the two are - “There's a boy who fogs his world and now he's getting lazy / There's no motivation and frustration makes him crazy / He makes a plan to take a stand but always ends up sitting / someone help him up or he's gonna end up quitting,” says the chorus.

“Words I Might Have Ate,” the final track on the album (not including the added Sweet Children EP), turns off the amps in favor of an acoustic bonfire jam sound, with great results. “Tell me the words I might have said / It's pumping pressure deep inside my head / Was it bad enough to be too late? / Just tell me the words I might have ate.” “Sweet Children” and the following four songs are noticeably older than the rest of the album, sounding like they were recorded somewhere around the same time as 1000 Hours and Slappy. And they work, from “Best Thing in Town” and “Strangeland” all the way to the cover of “My Generation,” with their grainy, lo-fi quality giving them a backyard DIY concert feel.

That’s the end of the album. I’m drained. Go listen to it.