Artist description Hard ass fuckin loud rock and roll with no bullshit.

Music Style Hard rock and roll.

Musical Influences Tool, Rollins Band, Pantera, Disturbed, Staind, Rage Against The Machine

Similar Artists The sick kid of Rollins Band and Tool

Artist History The band was formed in 1999 by Dave Kranson and Andy LaFave, Bryan Hughes, and Floyd Orfield soon joined up. They played their first show in April of 2000, and have been kicking the fuck out of Phoenix ever since.

Group Members Dave Kranson - Vocals Bryan Hughes - Guitar, Vocals Floyd Orfield - Bass Andy LaFave - Drums

Instruments Rising Conviction uses Crate amplifiers and Ibanez guitars. Lexicon effects processing. JBL PA and Sabian drums.

Albums Middle of the End

Press Reviews Oct. 7, 2001 Phoenix's best-kept secret really has to be seen live to be appreciated. Through a succession of better and better gigs at B. J.'s eating place, Rising Conviction has established a small but fervent following. On the 8th of October, this rapidly improving band attracted a medium-sized crowd - consisting chiefly of 18 to 35-year-old eleventh-hour weekend partygoers in staunch denial of the impending Monday morning - to an unremarkable venue. Granted, a small portion of the audience did include the usual captive audience of B.J.'s regulars as scruffy, beer-stained and jaded as the well-worn bar fixtures; but, considering that it was, after all, a Sunday evening, the 70+ turnout proved a splendid accomplishment for the still-evolving band, whose eclectic sound could be described as heavy, raw and emotional and, to be honest, just good old vanilla-plain LOUD. Speaking of this aforementioned garden-variety loudness, one could insist that "loud" has just been so DONE by a long genealogy of angry, angst-ridden bands of the mo'; but the inflated decibel-level generated by these four angry men is no less impressive (and no less deafening for the next 2 days) every time we hear it. It is music that is loud and good; not loud and shitty. And, fortunately, it would appear that the bar staff have attended the Helen Keller/Marcel Marceau school of lip-reading/mime and do a brilliant rendition of drinks service in slow motion. They've got your ass covered, down to the two slices of lime and 3.5 drops of tabasco sauce in your shaken-not-stirred bloody mary. Due to this inarticulate, freshman music-taxonomist's inability to correctly classify sound, I'll have to relegate Rising Conviction's sound to the "Henry Rollins meets Tool and wall-of-sound," sub-species of alternative-y, hard-rock-y nu-metal, I guess. I'm certain that this is incorrect. I admit that I suck at this reviewing thing. Please hold your gunfire and rotten vegetables. The beefy, perspiring, pouncing frontman may be the black sheep of the band. For lack of better description (once again, blame the amateur at the keyboard, here), Dave Kranson's explosive, stabbing, jagged, snarling (yet sometimes surprisingly tender and candid) lyrics contrast so brightly with the muted, tricky, melodic background upon which they are eye-poppingly, fist-poundingly, dead-seriously delivered, that for a split second one might wonder if D-Kran is frankly on the wrong stage. But, then, the careful listener will note that Kranson's lyrics are actually very deep, thought-provoking, clever and visceral - college-essay fodder, really. Tweedy English teachers would sustain erections over this stuff. Don't let Kranson's furious, fearsome exterior fool you - there's something of a modern prophet under there - a violent Shakespeare in motion. Too blase? Not with lines like "when I'm gone/I know that you'll be hurting" and "you cannot rely on me/so don't think that you can," and "I'm not in control anymore/and the last thing I need is a second chance." When Kranson tells it, he tells like it is; and he tells it from his soul. He doesn't sing as much as, simply, "say," with his arms flailing like a puppet-master vainly trying to control his creations. For this show, Kranson sports a thick, scary, Grizzly Adams beard. I suspect that the hirsuite accessory was cultivated to help deflect his usual unsolicited crowd of drooling females that inevitably descend upon him, vulture-like, with every gig. The poor man simply cannot hide, even behind a heavy beard. Unsurprisingly, following the show, Kranson goes down like a wildebeest hunted by hungry lions. God help him. Rising Conviction's bedroom-eyed guitarist, the indispensible, superlative Bryan Hughes, we all know, is a brilliant guitarist and the glue that holds the band together (but wait - was that riff stolen from Tool....?); but, generously enough, he once again appears to restrain his performance to avoid upstaging his colleague (the bundle of dynamic energy at the microphone). This particular show reeks of the hours Hughes must have spent behind the scenes deconstructing the guitar parts that go with these songs. His obvious efforts have paid off; and where once we had a somewhat simple, hunt-and-peck guitar part (although, in all fairness, this was in part due to an incompetent sound man who committed suicide after the first show, no joke), we now find Hughes' viscious, gravity-defying riffs amounting to a complex, dynamic, brilliant, unique contribution that really defines the overall sound. Perhaps my tendency to declare Hughes the most musically blessed Rising Convictioner arises from my own struggles with the guitar; but nonetheless, the man's guitar-playing undeniably shines. Like the fucking sun. Unforunately, Hughes' brilliant acoustic interlude proves too much for the boozy, short-attention-spanned masses, who turn away, refill their beers and begin to socialize, but the guitarists in the audience hearken and learn. Floyd Orfield, the steady, quiet, seemingly innocent bassist, delivers his usual steadfast, technically sound performance; and attracts his usual throng of adoring, hair-petting females. Orfield even dons his signature joke cowboy hat that has become a routine part of his rig (brainchild of bad-big-brother Hughes and his evil tricks - someone tell Mom). The remaining member of the Four, drummer Andrew LaFave, is, well....LOUD. He is the root of the Great Loud, O frightened children. And, judging by the positive reaction of the vagina-ed ones present, LaFave is also extremely easy on the eyes - too bad for the ever-present females that so much of him is esconced by the drums. Each song is a dynamic mix of loud, thrashy drums, steady bass and colorful guitar riffs, against Dave's soulful emotional journey, delivered at tragic, shaky whispers and infuriated screams. The sound is very masculine. And, honestly, the audience loves it. As usual, halfway through the set, people get up and mosh and dance as if in the throes of orgasm, and girls stuff dollar bills down the moist crevices of the embarrassed Four. Disgraceful. Where the hell are those scary, mountainous bodyguards of Martial Law now that we so desperately need them? Somehow, this mix of diverse elements works. If I were to offer any criticism, I would say that Rising Conviction needs to distinguish itself a bit more. The light show consists of a couple of candles. Where is the avant-garde picture show? Where is the micro-camera's depictions of mucuous membranes, ear holes and genitals displayed on a projector screen for all to see and admire? The Innuit choir? The cross-stage salad shooter? The quasi-tap-dancing? The peepee fountain? The enthusiasm of the hollering, cheering, jumping crowd and the sea of goofy, shameless Kool-Aid grins belied the appreciation of the clearly entertained crowd. Rising Conviction exits the stage, knocking over equipment, shaking hands with screaming girls, waving at the crowd. Sunday night's installment proves to be a gutsy performance from a group of musicians that know damn well that they're better than they've ever been. Provided that they don't kill each other prematurely, Rising Conviction is going someplace - and it isn't just to the bar at B.J.'s.

Additional Info Demo

Location Phoenix, AZ - USA

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