How I played guitar in Green Day: A fourteen-year-old’s guide to getting what you want.

When I was fourteen, my dream came true. 

During the mid-nineties I was a kid in the Dominican Republic, watching MTV like millions of others around the world. I was a fan of the music of the era, tuning in between playing video games or running around outside. But one day, through the pirated cable on my parents' TV, I discovered Green Day. From there, my interests took a sharp turn.

Soon, I was skipping sunny afternoons outdoors to stay inside, rewatching their videos, and waiting for new ones to drop. I was hooked.

I borrowed an acoustic guitar from an uncle and taught myself guitar by learning their songs. I taped over my dad’s VHS movies to build a vault of their music videos and interviews. I even upset my mom by replacing the family portraits in the living room with their framed posters. 

Millions of teenagers at the time got bit by that same green bug. But a few years later, at the peak of my fandom, I did something unimaginable:

I got on stage in front of ten thousand people and played guitar with my idols. 

From that moment, music became a mission. Years later I’d leave my friends and family behind and move to the U.S. to pursue music full-time. A pursuit that has taken me around the world, brought me face-to-face with many of my heroes, and given me some of the most meaningful relationships of my life.  

But despite the decades of effort, the dream of doing it for a living has eluded me. Now, twenty five years to the date of that event, I want to look back at that fourteen-year-old and ask him how he accomplished his dream, in hopes that I can take my own advice.

Decide what you want

What do you want more than anything? Do you know? For me, at fourteen, there was a straight line from that question to the answer:

To see my favorite band live. 

When midway through the year 2000 I found out that Green Day would be playing the Van’s Warped Tour, I had only one thing in mind; I needed to be there. The tour would stop in West Palm Beach, Florida. I had no money and neither did my parents, but I had an aunt who did, and she lived there too.

 So I made the call. 

After letting her know I was about to ace 8th grade, I mentioned how my favorite band was playing in her town. I asked if she’d pay for my flight and let me stay with her. I didn’t tell my parents I was doing it because I didn’t want them to stop me. I just did it.

Sometimes it pays to be bold and naive. By the end of the call, she said yes. 

Think bigger

Early that summer, with the plane ticket bought and the trip now a reality, I started hyping myself up by reading anything I could find online about the band’s performance. 

This was before Youtube or social media. I’d crawl forums on a dial-up connection from the computer in my parent's living room, getting knocked offline whenever someone called the house; Which, if you know latino households, was often. 

Everyday I was reading first-hand accounts from people who’d seen them. That’s how I learned they were pulling random fans on stage to play a song with them. I’d see daily photos of kids my age, or younger performing with them. At this point the dream expanded; I didn’t just want to see them anymore, I wanted to play with them.

It was ambitious for a kid landlocked on an island.

Understand the trade-offs

Fast forward a month or two from the phone call, I’d finished eighth grade and was in Florida, staying at my aunt's house. 

My older cousin Michi picked me up and we got to the festival grounds as the gates opened. Dozens of bands I loved were playing across multiple stages. These were bands that shaped my musical and socio-political awakening.

But I had to make a choice: zig zag across stages trying to catch them all, or commit to one goal; securing a spot at the front of Green Day’s stage to increase my chances of getting pulled up to play. 

It was one of my first real lessons in tradeoffs. 

I worried I’d miss out on other bands and still fail at my mission. But I walked straight to the barricades and stayed there for seven hours. It meant I only saw whoever happened to be performing on that stage, whether I cared about them or not.

It was a tough decision, but I had a goal to reach.

Expect to fail along the way

Hours later, as a large crowd packed around me before the band went on, I realized that I’d need help getting their attention.

So I improvised. I started polling the people around me to see if they played guitar. If they said yes, I smiled and moved on. If they said no, I made my pitch: “Hey, they’re gonna ask who plays guitar — would you mind pointing at me?”

In hindsight, a strong strategy for someone barely a teenager. 

They came out and I was ecstatic. My heroes were just feet away, playing the songs that made music my obsession. That alone felt like enough, but halfway through their set came the moment I’d prepared for. Just like I’d read online, Billie Joe stepped up to the mic and asked:

“Can anyone here play guitar?” 

My cousin and the allies I’d recruited sprang into action, pointing and waving. Billie and I locked eyes. 

“Can you play? Are you sure?!” 

I nodded furiously. But just as I was about to meet my destiny, Billie’s gaze drifted. He spotted a cooler looking teenage girl wearing bunny ears and brought her up instead. 

I’d failed.

Bet on yourself

I was bummed, but if I’m honest, also a little relieved.

At that point in my life I hadn’t played publicly yet; it was terrifying to think about performing in front of thousands. Part of me was happy to settle, I could geek out over the brief exchange with my teenage idol, go home, and tell my friends about how it ALMOST happened. 

But the girl on stage froze. She couldn’t play the song and was ushered off. Billie scanned the crowd again, my crew pointed at me harder. 

“Are you sure you can play?”

 I was nervous, I was scared, I felt nauseated, but I raised my hand and shouted back: 

“Yes!” 

When the moment came to bet on myself, I took the risk. A giant security guard lifted my scrawny body from the pit to the stage.

I’d made it.

Have a healthy dose of delusion

Billie pulled me aside and with the guitar turned down, made sure I knew the song. Then he walked me to center stage and cranked up the volume knob. 

I felt like I belonged there. This was what I had expected to happen. In my mind, it made perfect sense that a kid from another country would devise a plan to get on stage with one of the biggest bands in the world, and pull it off.

That’s the kind of delusion I want to keep alive. The kind that insists on asking: Why not me?

Don't overthink it.

I nailed the song and was brought up to the mic where Billie asked me questions about myself. I remember cracking jokes and getting laughs from the band and the crowd. I felt like a natural on stage. If there was ever a moment in my life where I didn’t overthink and just went with the flow, this was it.

I must’ve made a good impression because I even got a kiss goodbye. 

The band counted down and I stage-dove into the pit. I still remember the view as I leapt off, the cheering of the crowd, the hi-fives of strangers around me. The disbelief. The fulfillment. 

It’s a high I still chase.

What would fourteen-year-old me do?

Now, as I near forty, I can feel life pulling in opposing directions.

I have a full-time job. Responsibilities pile on. And as it often happens with age, a need for stability creeps in; something that the arts rarely provide. I split my time between creative pursuits, and traditional employment, wondering if I’m doing enough, and if my runway is running out.

But while it may be necessary to play both sides of the field, I need to make sure I don’t play it too safe.

Each day, I ask myself if I’m thinking big enough. It's a question I have written on my wall. It’s how I check myself to make sure I’m not drifting, not getting too comfortable. I use it to make sure the dreamer in me keeps breathing, so that when the next big moment comes, I’m ready to make the bet. 

In the two decades since I played with Green Day, I’ve spent ample time admiring the careers of many artists who worked their way into being remarkable. I’ve used their steps as guideposts while making my own path. But rather than only looking outward for direction, I must look inwards for inspiration as well. 

I need to see the wisdom in the moves that fourteen year old kid made to get on stage. 

I’m doing my best to get back to that level of trust in my own intuition. When I’m facing doubts or big decisions, maybe it’s not enough to question if my present-day self is thinking big. Maybe I also need to ask: What would my fourteen-year-old self do? 

It might be the most important question I can have up on my wall.