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Hollow Victory

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He started a few unsuccessful bands and sunk all his cash into records, shows, zines, and merch. For Brummel, hardcore wasn't simply music -- it was a way of life. He shaved his head, kept his stout frame covered in tattoos, and spoke in angsty slogans. If you weren't with him, you were against him.

In 1989, at the tender age of 17, he moved out of his parents' house and started his label with "$800, determination, and a vision," he boasts on a Victory promo flier.

Brummel declined Scene's interview requests, as did family members. Yet in previous interviews, he proudly notes that he never went to college and never got help from his folks. The label's mascot is a bulldog, in keeping with his underdog ethos.

At first, it was just a hobby. He sold 7-inches from his driveway and hosted shows in the basement.

But by 1993, Brummel was spending every waking hour building his roster and brand. He wrote emphatic press releases that set Victory apart from the industry's coastal pantheons. "Victory is my company," says one flier. "There are no board meetings. There is no corporate office. There are no investors forcing us to make a certain amount of profit. There are no fat, 50-year-old men sitting around a table, strategizing on how to capitalize on our culture, music, and lifestyles."

But it wasn't until 2001 that Victory became a true force. Thursday's second album, Full Collapse, was picking up steam. It sold over 300,000 copies and kicked off the emo craze. Brummel knew he was on to something.

He went on an emo binge, signing bands filled with baby-faced boys, screechy guitars, and heart-on-their-sleeves lyrics. "I've always said that Tony's true genius is that he realizes there is a nonstop supply of kids who just want to get on the Warped Tour, and if they get on Victory, they know that will happen," says Patrick Grueber, former head of the label's radio-promotion department.

Victory became emo's flagship with acts like Taking Back Sunday, Atreyu, and Aiden. Brummel applied the same '80s-hardcore, "fuck corporate rock" attitude to his roster's new sound. Instead of relying on radio play and magazine covers, he dumped millions into building street teams of loyal, obsessed fans, who'd infiltrate shows from L.A. to D.C. Eventually, you couldn't go to a concert without being handed a Victory flier or sampler.

He built his staff from the same base, stocking his office with idealistic scenesters who saw him and his label as God. Brummel expected his legions to live and breathe Victory. This wasn't just a job; it was a life. Everyone was given a BlackBerry so they'd be accessible to Brummel 24-7. "The BlackBerries were just leashes," says a former employee. "He wanted to know what you were doing constantly."

Once, Brummel even bought the entire office New Balance sneakers. "We thought it was kind of cool," says a former staffer. "But after a while, if you didn't wear them, he'd be like, 'Why aren't you part of the team? You're not supporting the label.' People would just leave their shoes in the office and then change them when they came in."

Brummel, they believe, was quickly becoming the corporate despot he so constantly railed against. And as the label became more successful, his guerrilla marketing tactics grew more aggressive.

He launched public attacks on Apple CEO Steve Jobs, accusing the company's iTunes website of "stealing music's soul" by allowing people to forsake the album format for single-song purchases. In an e-mail soaked in paradox, Brummel leveled the same charges his own employees threw at him. "Music consumers would look at your tactics as worse than those employed by the major record companies," Brummel wrote Jobs in an e-mail. "I am surprised Apple operates in such an authoritarian manner when its public image is that of a company run by creative types."

While his outbursts were in line with the us-against-them attitude that drew kids to his crusade, they also earned Brummel enemies.

As Hawthorne Heights' second record was about to hit stores, Victory shot off a "manifesto," calling on the band's fans to engage in a war against rap, according to court documents.

R&B and hip-hop star Ne-Yo was releasing a new record the same week. Both were vying for the No. 1 spot on Billboard. Victory directed fans to intentionally hide Ne-Yo's CDs at record stores, while moving Hawthorne Heights' CDs to more prominent places. The label claimed the No. 1 spot rightfully should be reserved for rockers, not rappers. "Victory at all costs, Victory in spite of all terror, Victory however long and hard the road may be; for without Victory, there is no survival," closed the two-page directive, which was distributed across the web.

Though the sloganeering seemed quintessentially Brummel, the "manifesto" was signed by Hawthorne Heights.

But the move backfired. Media and fans saw the label's call to arms as thinly veiled racism. This wasn't a case of major versus indie, but suburban versus urban, white versus black.

It also exposed the crevices in Victory's anti-corporate leanings. "These tactics and hype nullify Victory's indie-vs.-major battle," wrote The Onion. "If an indie's copying a major's business aggression, the line between the two disappears. You can't wave the indie flag, then tell your street teamers to hide CDs."

Hawthorne Heights quickly distanced itself from the statement. "We didn't write that -- our label did," drummer Eron Bucciarelli told MTV News.

Brummel, in turn, shoved the blame on an underling, Abby Valentine, who worked in promotions. "It has come to our attention a joke e-mail sent to some of our street team members by a junior ranking staff member was posted on the Internet and has created some commotion," he wrote in an e-mail. "First of all, the message was by all means a joke."

Valentine resigned two days later. She declined comment for this story.

But Hawthorne Heights finally had enough of Brummel, citing him as the source of the "manifesto," according to court documents. The band began to talk publicly about his name-calling and charges of disloyalty, accusing him of deceptive accounting practices and shady contracts.

They weren't the first band with stories to tell.

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