The Answer to Hipsters

I've caught wind of an apparent and rampant Interweb craze straight out of post-apartheid South Africa. Die Antwoord, or "The Answer", is a hip-hop faction of Zef (translates mysteriously to "common", cause they are anything but) culture on the "next level", as they say. Made up of MC Ninja, Yo-Landi Vi$$er, and the mute DJ Hi-Tek, Die Antwoord recently performed at Coachella and are now signed with Interscope Records.

There is plenty more to discuss about the rap sensation (like Ninja's tattoos, Tsimfuckis, their child(?) or their future) but I can let Pitchfork do the footwork for me: Who the Hell are Die Antwoord?

Running in circles to determine authenticity, there are whispers of Ali G and performance art. Are they fo' real? Are they the "Williamsburg hipsters of South Africa" seems to be bubbling on the lips of the Blogosphere as far as I can tell, but what I think is much more frightening to the non-hipster crowd.

We don't need to hate hipsters. We mean even, gasp, need to embrace them.

Let's get it straight: We can all despise the trustfundarians, as the New York Times once called them, or those who live in the hip part of The City because their rich parents can fund them through their career ventures in all things media. We can shun those who act pretentious, like their shit don't stink, and those who generally stink, for some odd reason.

BUT why do we HATE the costume, the parties, the lifestyle, and the Fun? Hipsters dress like it is Halloween every day and they get away with it! Girls can wear their comfortable pajama shirts with neon leggings and guys can get away with rocking it like Burt Reynolds in a library. They have jobs where they can socialize day and night, and all the while celebrate the moment like we all wish we could.

They still seem pretty boss to me. Or, I mean, not boss, but you know what I mean. Right?

The fashion of previous generations keep dragging me back to this point. We've had cocaine, disco, big shoulder pads, bigger than big hair, baggy pants, and tribal tattoos. And we laugh plenty of it off as us "just being kids".

I want to look back at pictures of my youth and scream bloody murder. I'll smack my forehead, trying without success to recall what went through my head as a twenty-something, but, for most, I don't think they'll remember. But they just might miss it. Or worse, we could all just miss out. And be boring. And then die.

So when it comes down to tests of whether or not Die Antwoord or hipsters or you or me are "real", we will never know. Or do we already?