BY JUD COST

Before Green Day's much-anticipated Bay Area homecoming was ten minutes old, band dynamo Billie Joe Armstrong had carpet-bombed San Jose's shark tank so thoroughly with the f-word the sold-out crowd had become de-sensitized to the term in all its permutations. "Come on, this isn't fucking Los Angeles ... this isn't a fucking Sharks game!" Armstrong bellowed at those still hunkered down in the reserved seats. "I want all you motherfuckers to get off your asses and stand up!"

Moms and Dads with their preteen kids in tow looked at each other, swallowed hard, shook their heads, smiled-and stood up, hands in the air, like they'd been transported to some off-kilter Christian revivalist tent meeting.

Green Day's total assault on the senses right out of the chute, had made the show's introductory number-a complete playing of the Ramones' Phil Spector-produced 1979 recording of "Rock And Roll High School"-seem loveably moptop by comparison. Once the local heroes, hailing from East Bay suburbs like Rodeo and Pinole and tempered in the crucible of Berkeley's Gilman Street punk palace, hit the boards running with the title tune from their new album, 21st Century Breakdown, the stage lit up with a spectacular night-time backdrop of twinkling skyscrapers. The urban landscape would soon be reduced to rubble, totally immolated like a four-alarm backyard barbecue.

Armstrong and bassist Mike Dirnt spent the evening darting to the far reaches of stage right and stage left, then changed course to alternately venture out onto the central runway as drummer Tré Cool thumped the pagan skins like a seasoned jackhammer operator. It was a similar traffic-control pattern that had worked for the squeaky-clean Jonas Brothers in this same place only two weeks earlier, the parents of young kids chaperoned to both events must have thought. So, why did tonight seem more fraught with danger? Armstrong rudely shook them from such banal reverie with "Murder City," a tune dedicated to Oscar Grant, the unlucky, unarmed rapid transit patron shot and killed by a BART cop last New Year's Eve.

Of course, Green Day's lavish career retrospective also included plenty of numbers from its runaway successful, Grammy-winning 2004 album American Idiot, including the haunting "Boulevard Of Broken Dreams" and the Jam-like "Jesus Of Suburbia," as well as vintage material from breakthrough 1994 longplayer Dookie ("Basket Case," "Welcome To Paradise").

Just as spectacular as the music were the 25-foot high flamethrower-like blasts from a set of elongated smudge pots, along with cascading volleys of big-bang indoor fireworks that spontaneously ignited all night long. If the local fire marshal signed off on this event he must have come directly from a five-martini lunch.

The entire Armstrong clan, seated up front, was cajoled onstage one at a time by the tireless frontman, who must have run a half marathon tonight. "This is my older brother," beamed Armstrong hugging his sibling before dismissing him with a cursory, "OK, get your fucking ass out of here." Armstrong laughed heartily as he noted that his sister was probably out in the lobby smoking weed. Another evening highlight found Armstrong urging his mother into the limelight. After a big hug, Mom, wielding a supersoaker like a guitar, jogged out onto the runway to a hero's welcome to cool off the patrons.

The band's true populist roots were easily discerned under all that dyed hair and industry-awarded hardware when a nine-year-old Los Gatos boy named Jason was helped onstage by his father who must have wondered if he was, like Abraham in the Old Testament, offering up his son for sacrifice. Armstrong just used the kid as a prop to get the crowd to clap in unison before telling him "OK, you little prick, get outta here." A young girl named Stephanie, pushed onstage by standees in front, did a pretty decent job volunteering to sing lead on one particularly stirring anthem. She was awarded a rousing ovation that immediately turned to boos when she revealed she was from Los Angeles, but redeemed herself with a nifty stage dive into the mosh pit.

Anyone expecting a grand finale to tonight's musical melee was not disappointed. Green Day began to wrap up the main set with a lumbering version of Otis Day & The Nights' centerpiece number from National Lampoon's Animal House, the Isley Brothers-penned "Shout" ("A little bit softer now, a little bit softer now...a little bit louder now, a little bit louder now").

The boys had previously teased the fans with the Kinks'/Van Halen's "You Really Got Me," the Doors' "Break On Through (To The Other Side)" and Black Sabbath's "Iron Man," but now it was time to pay tribute to their Bay Area roots. In addition to sewing parts of Them's garage-rock classic "Gloria" onto "Shout," they San Francisco-ized the mash-up by adding snippets of Jefferson Airplane's "Somebody To Love" and the Grateful Dead's "Truckin'" to the mix. Even Journey's sappy "When The Lights Go Down In The City" was welcome fuel to the bonfire.

Green Day's current world-class status is undeniable. As Armstrong had warned everyone during the opening minutes of a set that was threatening the three-hour mark by night's end: "This is our time, our moment, right now!" And who could argue with that?