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“Am I the bad one?” yelps the singer and percussionist Ollie Judge, embodying a morally dubious character who is only just beginning to question the customs of his culture.

But for that moment we sang together, a collective yelp of determination to keep dancing.

“I was trying to brush her ‘cause she stepped in something,” she said, more yelping coming from inside the car.

Her convention-speech promise that she would work with “small business owners and entrepreneurs and American companies to create jobs” was pro-capitalist enough to draw mild yelps from a few progressive critics.

His power is in his voice — a twitchy, erratic, untethered yelp — that reveals him not as a victim, but as a vessel of chronic pain.