The Escorts

The Escorts first caught a glimpse of themselves in a cracked mirror that was jammed up with all their friends. The air was heavy and stale with cheap beer and visions of Mick Jagger’s growling lips and Joey Ramone’s torn and cocked jeans danced through the night. From this dingy basement in downtown Calgary, the sounds of punk and roll inspired by NYC grit in the ’70s, chasing after the New York Dolls, the Ramones, Blondie and the rest of those beautiful nutjobs, snarled and swaggered into the crisp midnight air. It was February 2012 when the first chords of this blend of lascivious punk rang out and hips haven’t stopped gyrating around exposed jugulars since then.

The Escorts are punk made into carnal desire, dripping with sex and sweat. It’s for rock and roll nurses that go straight to your head; it’s for weirdo aliens who spend their late nights howlin’ at the moon; it’s for broken instruments and heads full of unlikely dreams. They’re as trashy as they are fabulous, a messy, bluesy brand of fuck-punk with stunning good looks and whiskey charm. Go on, shotgun another beer, they’re not going to bed anytime soon.

With ragged, breathless anticipation, each live show brings the Escorts one step closer to immortality so that they can one day die. The Escorts are not whores, but, c’mon, baby, they’ll make sure you don’t go home alone tonight.