Grupi Belinda

On the edge of the Galactic Loop, a cathedral-bell-shaped ship drifts through the void. The SOLO BELLS. Its warp thrusters toll like divine percussion, and inside it walks Grupi Belinda: synth priestess, interstellar janitor, and unintentional sonic hazard. Raised scrubbing stained-glass stabilizers and wiping down amp coils, Belinda worked from mop to metronome. Every credit she earned went into piano lessons. But when she found an abandoned synth in the airlock and rewired it with scrap parts, something awakened. Her first solo? It blasted a mechanic off his feet and gave half the crew migraines. She called it “Baptism by Feedback.” From there, she toured the outer moons, playing sets that cleared venues like fire drills. Her music — a fusion of hypersynth, holy noise, and violent sub-bass — drove audiences to nosebleeds, disorientation, and the occasional flashback. She didn’t care. She wasn’t playing to please. She was playing to find something real. Then came Jax White. On Screamer’s Moon, mid-set, as security ducked and smoke rose from her rig, one man stood tall. Wild hair. Cosmic shades. A jacket made of old backstage passes and pants far too tight. He was headbanging like he’d found religion. When the final note hit, he threw up his arms and shouted, “YES! That was like getting body-slammed by a synth angel in zero gravity!” Strutting forward, he bellowed, “Name’s Jax White — vocalist, pilot, prophet of Vibraflux! And YOU—” he pointed with both hands, “—are the soundwave messiah! Your keys don’t just play — they punish! I’ve seen the signs. You’re gonna drop a note so pure it’ll numb the whole galaxy’s pain!” He called it a prophecy. Now Belinda follows the Rockonauts. Still cleaning. Still melting soundboards. But she plays with purpose. To find that audience. To heal through chaos. And if you talk during her set? You’re gonna taste synth.