The drummer, the string instrumentalist and the general infidel met on the boundary of the shanty town. The town, not having heard of music or the butchery thereof, welcomed them, while not with open arms, with an open mind. They liked the idea of rhythm, not that the drummer was an expert on the subject.
A hundred years later, when the rest of civilisation tried to welcome the town into its fold, the town invited the representatives of the country’s government to a music festival.
After the festival, the town was quarantined and closed off from the rest of the nation. With an eye on exacting revenge, the town dispatched the latest generation of its progeny on a secret mission. They were to infiltrate schools and other such cultural institutions and wheedle their way onto the music governance boards and generally convert their peers into their way of musicry (thereby, despite the best of intentions, ruining the future cultural direction of any institution they touched).
They succeeded only too well, and soon, when communications with the Western conquerors were initiated, this was one country that went uncolonised. When the nuclear war came, they also remained the one country that was left unrazed. Thankfully for them, by this time, they were used to not having much company.