It’s a couple years after the end of the world. You were one of the lucky ones, the survivors. Or at least you thought you were lucky at the time. But now, after years of living off the land, in the ruins of a city you used to call home, you’re not so sure any more. This night, like so many indistinguishable nights before it, you gather around a campfire with your collected group — the family you’ve made out here in the wild — with nothing to do but await the sunrise.
Then, out of the abyss beyond the firelight, you suddenly hear a joyous noise. You don’t quite know what it is, but you strain to hear — and before you can see the source of the racket, you find yourself dancing.
Into the clearing bursts a cacophony of musicians — drums and brass and saxophones — bedecked in tattered clothes, ornamented with broken pieces of formerly shiny things. Their megaphone-wielding leader sings about the joy of destruction. And you dance and dance until dawn.