Grand piano people and synthesizer people might as well be two incompatible strains of humanity.

Grand piano people behave like every note is a UN resolution. They show up in tuxedos to empty practice rooms. They polish the piano lid with hand-embroidered cloth passed down from their ancestors. They eat bread without butter because “it interferes with finger agility.” Their idea of rebellion is removing the little felt pad from the soft pedal.

Synthesizer people, on the other hand, are basically swamp druids of electricity. They crawl out of thrift stores carrying broken Casios, declare them “cursed tomes,” and then hot-wire them to car batteries. They can’t sit upright for more than ten seconds because they’re too busy chasing the sound of “angry dolphin trapped in a fax machine.” Their concerts are 90% knob-twisting, 10% smoke alarm. They call this art.

And if you ever lock the two groups in the same room? The piano people will demand silence for a sonata. The synth people will summon a tornado made of dial-up modems.

Civilization ends not with war, but with Chopin drowned out by a noise that sounds like God gargling aluminum foil.