Behind the Anthony Greens

Keeping secrets is not one of my greatest strengths.

Which is weird, considering I talk about 82 percent less than the average American human.

But my ability to keep a secret falls right above my ability to translate episodes of The O.C. into Bulgarian (and I don't understand rich teenagers or Bulgarian.)

And now that I've got this blog, which requires me by law to turn the mundane events of my life into witty, egocentric, literary gold, it's even more difficult to refrain from spouting off when something interesting actually manages to transpire.

So you can imagine how trying it's been for me to keep in the fact that I wrote this month's cover story on Anthony Green.

Remember a few blogs back when I was hanging out on subway platforms and forgetting to eat? Yeah, that's where I was. I was in Philadelphia and Boston hanging out with Anthony.

And I couldn't tell you.

It wasn't easy.

But now that you're gazing into the sparkling blue pools of mystique that are Anthony's eyes on this issue's cover, I can finally fill you in on some of the stuff that went on behind the scenes.

I agreed to do the story in mid-May, and up until then, my interaction with Anthony Julius Green (I'm actually just guessing on the middle name), had been limited. I'd interviewed him over the phone a few times. The first interview, for the Most Anticipated issue write-up during the making of On Letting Go, led to some fierce geeking out on both our parts about Michel Gondry flicks--which led me to believe that, in an alternate universe, Anthony and I could be BFFs since for most interviews I do, the subjects are typically pretty business-up-front and business-in-the-back. (Except for last week, during which every single musician I interviewed demanded that I drop everything and go see The Dark Knight.)

When I spent a few weeks on Warped Tour last summer, I crossed paths with Anthony every now and then, leading to pictures like this:

Clearly, neither Anthony nor I have conscious memories of such interactions (and in my case: such haircuts).

Note: The guy poking his head through the middle there is my hetero life-mate Artie. He's on Warped Tour this year too, and if you stop by the Vagrant tent and offer him nachos, he'll hug you until Thursday--unless, of course, it is a Thursday, in which case he'll offer you a firm handshake.)

So flying out to hang out with Anthony in person for a few days was kind of like meeting up with some girl you met on Match.com who you'd e-mailed a few times, but never really gotten a full body shot of.

Still, I was stoked.

First of all (and if you're looking for stuff "From The Editor's Floor," this line is straight out of my first two drafts of the story): Getting to Anthony Green in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, is the equivalent of a reporter's journey into Joseph Conrad's Heart Of Darkness, but instead of traversing jungles, it's a trip through quaint, quasi-rural Eastern Pennsylvania villages. It took me a flight to Philly, a 20-minute shuttle ride to the subway station, two subway transfers and a 70-minute train ride just to get to his town. Doylestown isn't exactly a bustling metropolis, so I didn't have much choice but to walk the mile to my hotel with my obnoxiously loud rolling luggage.

When it began to rain, a car pulled up alongside me with two very compassionate Doylestownians who asked if they could give me a ride. I thought for a second about the 3,264 educational films I watched in elementary school admonishing the act of getting in a car with strangers, but this was Doylestown (not that I'm condoning hitchhiking in Doylestown). And it was raining. And they didn't lure me with any candy, so I assumed they were legit. (I was saddened when I learned there in fact wouldn't be any candy, but I didn't bring it up.)

In the car, the middle-aged couple asked what brought me to their humble town and I informed them that I was writing a cover story one of their own. They seemed interested and skeptical that a bona fide rock star walked among them, but they listened to my story and nodded and smiled a lot.

When we got to my hotel, I wasn't sure if I was supposed to tip them. I'm not sure of the protocol when hitchhiking, but I didn't want to offend them either way. So I left a dollar on the floor in the back seat, hoping they would find it later and spend it to their hearts' content.

I texted Anthony that I was in town, stepped outside for a cigarette and within about three minutes, he rolled up, promptly got out of his car--which I'm pretty sure belonged to one of the other guys in Circa since Anthony doesn't really drive--gave me a hug and decided to give me a tour of his town. (We'd originally planned to ride bikes, but the rain and my staggering level of lethargy put the kibosh on that.)

Within a few minutes, I'd forgotten that he was Anthony Green.

He might've forgotten who I was, but that's beside the point.

We pulled into the driveway at his house--the one he shares with the guys from Circa--and there was some fleeting drama about who might've left the screen door open, leaving the cat to roam and murder as freely as it wishes.

Seriously, a lot of musicians like to play off like they're actually just normal people underneath it all, but when confronted with something normal (like not requiring a bowl of specifically blue moon Lucky Charms marshmallows everywhere they go), they buckle.

But the guys in Circa Survive instantly seem like the kind of guys everyone grew up hanging out with, who then put their loot together to get a big, bare bones-kinda house.

I got some formal interviewing out of the way with Anthony (you'll have to read the story for that, champ) and then he and his wife Meredith (she was his fiancee at the time) took me to a Hibachi restaurant. An awesome time was had by all.

We were seated at a huge, 30-person table that was empty at first. As we were deciding on what to order, a big group of 20-somethings were seated right across from us. For a moment, Anthony and Meredith kinda stiffened up. Could it be that they were nervous Anthony would get recognized? Then they'd have to spend the whole night being stared at? A few moments pass and finally, Anthony quietly breaks the silence and says: "Fuck it. Let's get the Sashimi, too."

The group had no idea who he was.

(They also had no idea who I was--even when I gave them my business cards and pulled out an old issue of AP and pointed out all my bylines--but I came to terms with it.)

So, hey.

Since I'm determined to blog at least two more times this week, and also because my little fingers are sore from typing and playing MLB 2K8, I'm gonna leave you with three powerful words:

I love Oreos.

Wait. No.

To be continued.

(dum, dum, duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum.)

(But I really do love Oreos.)

(dum, dum, duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum.)

Rebel Without Applause

So I had a dream the other night that I killed everyone in Every Time I Die except for Keith Buckley. Which is weird because I have an overwhelming, semi-latent jealousy of Keith Buckley and his rugged good looks. And he's so freaking smart. And have you read his column? It's genius every time. And he has very nice sweaters.

Alright, so I'm in love with Keith Buckley.

Regardless.

I'm not completely sure what led to the demise of Every Time I Die in my dream (I'd call it a nightmare, but it technically couldn't be, because I drove around on a sweet hovercraft), but I remember thinking to myself, "Killing Every Time I Die. Huh. That's so damn literal." I'm not sure why I decided to let Keith live. I've come to the conclusion that it couldn't have been that Keith was able to stop me. I mean, let's face it, if I could handle Andy, I could pretty much handle the Royal Army of Paraguay.

And then I remember being really freaked out when the cops started sniffing around. (That's what they say. Cops "sniff around." I learned that on the streets, yo. The same place I learned how to use prepositional phrases.)

The cops busted into my apartment (which was actually the inside of a Long John Silvers) and I was like, "Cheese it! It's the fuzz!" But I'm not sure who I was talking to because the only person there was Scott Baio and he was totally preoccupied watching women's volleyball. And then I woke up.

What does this mean? And why am I bothering to tell you?

I'm not really sure.

But I think it all has to do with the fact that I co-hosted the newest AP Podcast with Bloggy McBloggerson himself (Scott Heisel).

Remember a few blogs back when I went offshore fishing for compliments by telling you that I'm a lot less funny in person than I am in print? (First of all, if you've made it this far in this blog, you're probably wondering how much validity there is to the second part of that statement.)

Well, now you can hear the awkward, stammering proof on this very website.

The thing is, when I get tabbed to co-host our podcast, it's a lot like in a Little League game when the losing coach decides he might as well play all of the kids who don't understand that they're supposed to stop running until someone tackles them.

I'm kinda that kid when it comes to podcasts. (And baseball.)

I'd done a podcast about a year ago, and for a moment it was so disheartening to everyone involved that we almost just canceled the entire podcast series and punched the sound engineer in his neck.

Okay, that's a lie.

But I wasn't invited back for a long time.

It's a real legit set-up--with a sound-proof booth and those cool microphones and headphones and everything. Mike Shea even gets the talent (that's what they call the people who do the show--the "talent"--regardless of irony) whatever they want from Starbucks. Since I don't drink coffee and I enjoy most of the same things that your average fourth grader does, I had Mike get me the biggest cup of vanilla cream he could get. He was a little embarrassed to have to order that and I could tell that, in the second that I told him, he second-guessed not only letting me on the show, but my very employment.

Anyway.

You're gonna have to suck it up and hear the podcast for yourself right here. 

Press Photaux Pas (It's French.)

I'm not perfect.

It's true.

I know what you're saying.

"What? You're a dirty, dirty liar, Tim. You're obviously perfect. I mean, look at you. The way you string together six or seven hyperbolic and often misused adjectives in a row to explain even the most mundane aspect of your life? It's like watching a sunset with words--a beauteous, illustrious, stunning, ravishing, sublime, pulchritudinous sunset."

But sorry, mom.

I've got many shortcomings--not the least of which is my inability to blog as often as our AP web enforcers suggest (violently demand).

So I'm implementing a weekly column here in this very blog (because thinking of blog subjects is the most physically and emotionally draining activity one can engage in next to house painting).

So here's how this is gonna work, friend.

We at AP are inundated with press kits--hundreds upon hundreds of press kits. Especially me since I deal with all of our unsigned band submissions (which, judging by the response to my last blog entry, I should never speak of again.) So each week, I'm going to show you one press photo and the story (I believe) lies beneath.

(For proof of my aforementioned fallibility, look no further than the title of this blog.)

Here we go:

Obvious Faux Pas:

• Three out of four pleather-clad members are clearly angry that the photographer decided the best location for their dark and sinister press shot was in the park overlooking their town smack in the middle of the busiest part of the Strawberry Festival, while the drummer (far left) is quite delighted to be getting a little sun before she has to pick up Madison from soccer.


• Guitarist is on the brink of tears after a traumatic velociraptor attack that nearly claimed her Skid Row T-shirt and turned the tips of her hair fluorescent pink.


• Clearly not a band at all, but instead: A covert, elite, anti-terrorism unit that relies on their feminine wiles to engage the enemy in compromising positions and then strike using their cunning and primary mission specialties (Team leader Viper is a former rogue fighter pilot trained in WWII German aerial maneuvers but was court marshaled for refusing to fly in anything but pleather bodices; Diminutive espionage specialist Banshee is a computer hacking prodigy who passed up a full scholarship at MIT and a $25,000 contract with Ford Modeling Agency in order to dedicate her time to cracking the Hot Topic mainframe; Weapons specialist and token brunette Dusty uses her innate psychic abilities and street smarts to outwit her enemies with sultriness and sass; and the soft-spoken, yet strong-armed blond Amazon is haunted by the memories of seeing her mother--the squad leader of this unit's predecessor [Refer to Image 1B]--killed in a tragic fur-related accident. Together, they form the most dangerous fighting force known to man: Cockpit.

Image 1B:

Now you try one.

What the Gerard Way is going on here?

Intro To Unsigned Bands: Chris Hanson cool

Who do I think I am?

Every band I've ever been in could be described as: At best, offensively bad; At worst, potentially harmful to one's external auditory canal. (We were acquitted of four out of five charges. Two lawsuits are still pending.)

I can play about seven and a half songs on guitar (not including the four songs I know by Everclear, which pretty much just count as one song).

And I can't seem to write a song that doesn't feature the word "Larceny" in the title (not including "P.I.M.P.," which in retrospect, turned out to be a 50 Cent song.)

However, if you're in an unsigned band, and you send your CD to AP for coverage, I'm the guy who's gonna listen to it.

It's true.

In some circles, that makes me more powerful than several members of Congress.

Unfortunately, none of my circles intersect with those circles.

Still, while spending part of yet another holiday weekend at the office, I began sifting through some of the 76-story-high stack of demos I have, and I opened a submission with the following letter:

To the Alternative Presses,

We started a band a few weeks ago and we started building a lot of buzz in my home town and we already have 432 MySpace friends and my friend Steve says we sound a lot like Alltimelow. We think we deserve an interview and a maybe a cover! Here are some songs.

So, as I sit here before the pale blue glow of my computer, contemplating what I could possibly find to blog about that would be of any interest to anyone else, I decided to talk a little about submitting your unsigned band to AP. I could tell you about attempting to wash my cat yesterday and the unspeakable reign of fury she unleashed upon me, but I get the feeling you wouldn't really care (and, mostly, it's traumatic for me to even really start to think about.)

Forgive me if this is all horribly Pettigrewian. But I spent my Fourth Of July alone watching a To Catch A Predator marathon on MSNBC, so I'm feeling a little surly and a little like I should have a seat right over there.

• DO: Be in a band that has existed for longer than the latest season of Shear Genius on Bravo. I'm sure you guys are awesome. I'm sure your guitars are shined so immaculately that they reflect all of the mistakes of a flawed humanity. But unless you're name starts with "Bob" and ends with "Nanna," I think you could probably use a couple more months of practice. Besides, a year from now, you'll thank me when you look back on the first three-chord song you almost submitted to me called, "Why Don't You Text Me Back, Madison (I Know You Made Out With Tyler Parker At Brad's Graduation Party): Part I"

• DON'T: Be in a band that has existed for longer than Saturday Night Live. Hey, man. I love the ponytail. What? No, I'm serious. It works for you. I strive to have one myself one day. However, if you've got a weekly gig playing mostly Extreme (or even Candlebox) covers across the street from where my uncle got arrested for indecent exposure (to be fair, he can't help it his pants fell off. He was passed out.), you should probably just enjoy the sweet arrangement you've got going.

• DO: Send me your contact info, even if it's just your e-mail address scribbled on a napkin. Actually, the simpler the better. (See next bullet point.)

• DON'T: Send me 43 local press clippings and 17 pages of the inspiration and meaning behind each of your songs. True, if one day you end up being My Chemical Romance, I'll consider selling all this on eBay. But right now, I can't quite give your glowing write-up in the Decatur Register the time it deserves.

• DO: Send the best recording you've got. Look. You don't have to wait until you have a Matt Bayles produce your debut EP. But you should probably have more than two songs your friend Tyler recorded with his SideKick and then played it into a 1993 cassette boom box and then transferred to a CD-R. Unless that all sounds really sick. In which case, do it up, champ.

• DON'T: Brag to me about your MySpace friends. I went to high school with this kid named Stewart who once got kicked out of a bowling alley for rolling two balls in the opposite direction of his lane, then poured a pitcher of Labatt Blue all over the lady next to him before kicking a Yorkshire Terrier on the way out. My point? He's got 3,219 MySpace friends.

• DO: Try to have your own sound. This one's tricky. Basically, I have three piles for unsigned bands nowadays: Those who sound like New Found Glory, those who sound like Underoath and everybody else. Although occasionally good bands come from the first two piles, when I'm looking for bands, I tend to reach for that third pile. (And by the way, that first pile is about 73 times the size of the other two. Just sayin'.)

• DON'T: Send me a picture of you with We The Kings. Those guys were in 64 percent of all photographs taken in the continental United States last year.

• DO: Give it a shot. I don't know how other magazines do it. I'm sure they probably have about six layers of interns who weed through submissions before they make it to an editor's desk (if they even look at unsigned bands at all). But at AP, seriously, your CD or e-mail is gonna (eventually) make it to someone who'll give it a listen. And, for the foreseeable future, that person is gonna be me. It can take a while to hear back from us, though. Since we get dozens of submissions every day (and some days, I'm a little frustrated and kinda just wanna listen to Jawbox), it's not like we'll get back to you the next day. But, seriously, send us your stuff. The only way to retain any element of coolness in today's world is to get in on a band before they make it. Imagine how exponentially cool I'll be if I'm the guy who actually discovers that band. We're talking about Chris Hanson cool.