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But in their case, this was a legitimate question.

“Does this band actually exist?” For most groups this would be an absurd question, and not in a back-handed Lana Del Ray sort-of-way. I found their whining more interesting than exhausting.

As charming as my banter can be, when you’re spun, you want to move, not speak. They would rather spend their minutes redistributing sweat and grime than making small-talk. Their hollow eyes and twitchy mannerisms gave the obvious impressions that these girls were far more amped than I was for this show. The girls standing next to me, brown eyes splashed in glitter, shorn t-shirt safety-pinned below their scrawny arms, hair affixed with phosphorescent sundries, were upset that Die Antwoord (pronounced Dee-fooken-Antwerd) were running late. “What’s taking so long? Does this band actually exist?”