The American post-hardcore band talk longevity, grief, and finding their way back after Tyson Stevens’ death
In the beginning, there was fire.
Not metaphorical fire, either — actual, human-lit, breath-exhaled flames. A teenage boy, jaw wired shut from an ATV crash, stood in front of a crowd at his high school homecoming dance and blew fire into the air like it was the most natural thing in the world. That boy was Pouyan Afkary. The band? Scary Kids Scaring Kids. One of the school advisors, understandably panicked by the pyrotechnics ran over, demanding the stunt be shut down.
She didn’t get her way. Her son, who happened to be in charge of the sound that night, looked her dead in the eye and let it roll. Pouyan still laughs about it.
“He betrayed his own mom. For us. That’s real.”
That moment a literal flame, a symbolic one, and a mother-son standoff now feels strangely pivotal. Because somehow, the chaos that night ignited something else: a band that would outgrow their Arizona suburb, sign to a label, and tour stages across the world. A band that would outlive every expectation placed on them, including their own.
Two decades later, Scary Kids Scaring Kids are still going. Still loud. Still standing. Still together, against all odds.
Afkary’s in Los Angeles when we speak. Guitarist and founding member Chad Crawford is in Phoenix. They’ve just dropped new tour dates and sound fired up.
“Amped,” Pouyan says. “Genuinely.”
And you believe him.
They’ve toured extensively in the U.S., but there’s a hunger in how he talks about what’s next. Maybe it’s because the band is in a good place. Maybe it’s because the crowds lately have been absolutely wild.
“We had three crowd-surfing lanes at a show recently,” he says. “There was this blind woman who just kept going again and again. She’d feel the front of the stage with her walking stick, then launch. It was insane.”
“Nothing stops the American crowds,” Chad adds. “It was just… rambunctious.”
Pouyan grins.
“So yeah, we better see a blind fan come out and crowd surf again. That sh*t was inspiring.”
The band formed in 2002 at Highland High School. Back then, it was all garage shows and warehouse chaos — maybe twenty kids in the crowd on a good night. Pouyan calls those gigs “shamelessly awful” — badly lit, loud for no reason, full of piss and vinegar and absolutely no plan. But they kept showing up, because they didn’t know better — and honestly, didn’t want to.
By 2003, they’d self-released the After Dark EP. The following year, they hit the road properly. Soon after, they signed to Immortal Records and dropped their breakout LP, The City Sleeps in Flames, in 2005. That was the record that stuck. Suddenly, they weren’t just the high school band with the fire-breathing keys player. They were a real f**king band.
“Honestly, it’s crazy we’re still doing this,” Chad says now. “Like, really. We get to travel with our best friends and play music. That’s not normal.”
What makes it even crazier? They’ve never had a full on blowout. No public feuds. No dramatic breakups.
“We started this because we liked being around each other,” Pouyan shrugs. “I couldn’t even play when I joined. Chad tried to teach me guitar, it didn’t stick. I ended up learning piano instead. It’s always been about connection. Friendship.”
Then he laughs.
“That sounded cheesy as hell.”
It does. But in context? It’s just honest. Back then, the music was mostly an excuse to hang out and smash microwaves on stage. That kind of energy doesn’t last unless there’s something deeper underneath it.
By 2011, they needed a break. Eleven months a year on tour had worn them down. Things were tense with frontman Tyson Stevens, who was going through some serious personal struggles. The hiatus wasn’t dramatic. It was just necessary.
Then came the unthinkable. In 2014, Stevens died from a drug overdose. He was 29.
The grief left a hole that nothing could really fill. Tyson wasn’t just their singer, he was their friend. Their nucleus. There was no official statement, no big announcement about what came next. Just silence, and a painful question hanging in the air:
Do we even keep going?
It took five years to answer.
“In 2019, I wrote a song called ‘Love Forever’,” Chad says. “It was about Tyson. We put it out, and people really connected with it. So we did a reunion tour. Then another. Then we made a record.”
But finding someone to take over vocals wasn’t just about hitting the right notes.
“There were a lot of stipulations,” Pouyan says. “We needed someone who could match Tyson’s energy. Who actually knew him. Who knew us. It had to be real.”
They found that in Cove Reber — someone already part of their orbit.
“It felt natural,” Pouyan says. “It felt like we were honoring him.”
“And now we’re better than we’ve ever been,” Chad adds. And the way he says it? It lands.
The band just dropped a new single, ‘Sin of Disrepair’, with an album on the way later this year. They’re older now. Calmer, maybe. But not softer. The edges are still there, just a little more focused. Sharpened. Purposeful.
“I’m glad we went that hard in our twenties,” Chad says. “Non stop. We needed that. But now I’ve got kids. I’m married. My life’s different.”
Pouyan nods.
“In other words, we’ve got boundaries now. As a therapist would call it.”
There’s a lightness in the way he says it. A knowing. Like he’s fully aware that what they’ve endured would’ve broken most bands. That grief, burnout, and an unforgiving industry haven’t killed this thing yet.
Somehow, Scary Kids Scaring Kids have survived it all still standing, still screaming, still catching fire.
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