The Prostitutes weren't supposed to last. Hell, we barely made it past the first rehearsal without fighting over what to call ourselves. But, somehow, in 1995, in the bowels of some nowhere Pennsylvania town, we stumbled onto something loud, raw and messy enough to feel real.
It wasn't about skill, it was about defiance The first shows were pure chaos. Small-town basements with ceilings so low you'd crack your skull if you jumped too high. Bars where the amps were louder than the crowd. And still, we played like it mattered, because it did. We were soundtracking our own survival.
Songs like Get Me Sick and 1-2-3-Go! weren't just tracks, they were rallying cries for anyone tired of towing the line. Those years were a blur of beer-stained floor, low budget gear and setlists written on napkins.
The world's gotten older, slicker and quieter, but the rage that drove us hasn't dulled, if anything, it's sharper now.
