On its fifteenth anniversary, Hal Hewlett revisits AJJ's People Who Can Eat People and its lasting effect on how we perceive music, the whimsy of meaning, and the simultaneity of emotion.
Often, when people talk about art, they talk in terms of statements - what kind of “statement” a piece of art makes. This expression is particularly apt when referring to punk music - punk music rarely cares about radio play, and part of the modus operandi is: if you have something to say, just say it. Usually, this kind of thing is assigned to statements that are irreverent and angry - when Dead Kennedys sing “take this job and shove it”, there is no room for ambiguity. The candidness is part of the music, and key to the emotional delivery of anger and discontent.
“The album is so human, so full of imperfection and beauty, it’s hard to consider it a kindred artform with the refined pop-punk and slick country music that reflect the modern view of those genres, the album’s primary musical influences.”
Rarely have I seen the direct and candid abilities of punk music so solemnly and emotionally applied as in AJJ’s most recognisable album, People Who Can Eat People are the Luckiest People in the World. The album is so human, so full of imperfection and beauty, it’s hard to consider it a kindred artform with the refined pop-punk and slick country music that reflect the modern view of those genres, the album’s primary musical influences. All of the information on the cover is, by now, wrong. The band has shed the name Andrew Jackson Jihad, acronymising down to simply AJJ. Even the title on the album cover contains the word “that” in place of “who”. It’s a testament to humanity and the flawed people behind the art - they’ll change, but the music will be the same. Very D.I.Y., very folk-punk, and strangely, very touching, even now.
The statements of this album are myriad and unified. If art is supposed to hold a mirror up to life, then this is one of those makeup-table ones that shows you blackheads and blemishes that you could swear weren’t there before. AJJ sing about what it’s like to be a person, and more so than that, the kind of person who listens to folk-punk music - people who may feel adrift, people who feel guilt, people who don’t know how to outpour their negativity without a conduit, a way to ground themselves so that they don’t shock people. Even listening to this album years after the first go around, I can still put my heart into singing some of these things, and I suspect once I can’t, I will appreciate that I did.
While People Who Can Eat People often feels sad, and at times hopeless, it is never lonely. “It’s sad to know that we’re not alone in this” is a line from Brave as a Noun, the band’s most recognisable song, and it’s true - learning that your negative emotions are not only your own, that you cannot even lay claim to something that personal, is a strange experience to go through, but coming to terms with that is cathartic. On the very next track, Sean Bonnette tells us that he just “handed you a giant load of gibberish”, but nonetheless thanks us anyway. By the end of the three opening tracks, it’s clear - we’re in it all together, whether the band is singing about trauma, shyness, guilt, blame, violence, things getting worse or things getting better. It’s an album that creates its own community - “we’re all one big band across this land”, they say, and by this point you can’t help but agree. There’s strength in togetherness, but when People Who Can Eat People isn’t communal, it’s personal, nervous, neurotic, worried, imperfect.
And the music feels that way too - hearing every footstep, absent-minded strum, and then the band counting in is like seeing the closing of a clapboard in front of a movie camera, taking us at behind the scenes, hearing people behind the music, reminding us that behind every nervy, shaking strum, there is a person, letting their feelings out. And as the rest of the instrumentation joins that instrumental line, and the cracking, enunciated vocals follow, there comes a pulse of emotion and sincerity that carries you from the first track to the last like the crest of a wave Given that folk-punk is often described (not entirely unfairly) as some sad kid singing with his acoustic, the sonic profile of the record is impressively varied - I couldn’t tell you what some of the instruments on A Song Dedicated to the Memory of Stormy the Rabbit are, but the plucking, the swelling of strings, the discordant brass - it’s haunting, in a way I didn’t expect to be haunted. It’s not easy, either, especially since Ben Gallaty plays standup bass, which is significantly harder but creates a big, booming, washboard sound that cushions every song, sounding comfortable in a way that’s hard to describe. Everything sounds so broad, recalling the desert of the front cover - the music itself feels isolated, unable to connect, especially on People li: The Reckoning, with its solemn string bends fading off into the ether between verses. The group vocals only make the track sound colder - singers huddling their words together for warmth, shying away from the unforgiving world. No doubt, this is part of the reason why, even now, People Who Can Eat People is one of the most well-known folk-punk albums in history - it’s hopeful, even in the face of adversity. “Rejoice, despite the fact this world will tear you to shreds / rejoice because you’re trying your best”.
“People Who Can Eat People posits that things can be horrible and amazing, all at the same time - you can be sad and listen to happy music, or be happy and listen to sad music, or you can have it all, all at once, for as long as you want.”
Folk-punk as a genre can be kind of hard to listen to sometimes because it can get very real. Lots of the people who sing in these bands speak from the heart, and you can sort of forget that for a second until it hits you in the gut all at once. Many of the bands who exist at the forefront of the genre have had their run-ins with suicide, drug abuse, and homelessness, which often comes up in songs that value their candidness above all else. I think this is what makes the hope in People Who Can Eat People feel so special, and so touching - knowing that the band is often laying bare their deepest problems makes the idea that they are giving us their sincerest hope deeply reassuring. One of folk-punk’s other darling records, Ramshackle Glory’s Live The Dream, is touching in no small part because it was written after its writer exited rehab, and listening to an album that sounds genuinely happy and hopeful after their earlier work that dealt with such dark themes is an extremely cathartic experience. That album told me that things can always get better. But People Who Can Eat People posits that things can be horrible and amazing, all at the same time - you can be sad and listen to happy music, or be happy and listen to sad music, or you can have it all, all at once, for as long as you want. Fifteen years after People Who Can Eat People, AJJ is still making music. They’ve changed (who wouldn’t), but they’re still here, doing it. And I’m still listening. Because, when an album sounds like this, why stop?
Hal Hewlett
Edited by: Roxann Yus
Cover image courtesy of AJJ via Wikipedia.
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