Die Antwoord. Yes, that pair of purposefully misshapen artist-musicians; demented fury in their eyes, their angry faces screaming zef rhymes as they toss skeef looks at their transfixed fans.

Their natural habitat? Some derelict, disturbed environment tinged by overt impoverishment, mental anguish scratching at the broken window. Outside, the grass is dead, barking dog chained up and rabid. Inside, primitive drawings drip from dilapidated walls, fiendish dolls smirk in the corner, scary wire-hanger sculptures hang from hooks, and God knows what else is lurking in the dingy shadows — or under the half-broken bed...

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