The scene is dying.
Life is just too tough to get going. People don't innovate; they survive. The young hepcats are frustrated with conventional, fixed-form jazz, but nothing can be done … until a young ivory-tickler from a rag-tag blues combo blows her trust fund on a boss horn section.
They all grab a loft on Ganymede and toss together everything they know – the blues, the jazz, the beats of all the colonies, and the home they all lost fifty years past.
Nobody knows what to call it. Nobody cares.
The group debuts with a gig in the basement of some ghastly biker bar. From there they tour the satellites, the asteroids, the dives nobody sane would visit; they pull in crowds and send them back out happy.
Soon the word is out on the 12-piece. They play Portos Lagos– “the Vegas of Mars” – and people flock to their standard. One critic says, “When you see the show, buckle yourself in,” and from then out, the crew is named Seatbelts. The scene is officially blown.
The year is 2071. Life is still tough, but the music is sweet.