Jack the nice

Be vigilant for they are among us. They are your friends and neighbours. You will find them on the campus, in the office and most definitely at the beach. They are the Jack Johnson fan-base, the most rapidly growing constituency in pop.

Over the past 12 months, you’d be forgiven for thinking the bodysnatchers had been at work, as the JJ cult – once a seaside reef-break enjoyed by surfers, backpackers and similar young dudes – has surely, stealthily gained momentum.
The numbers speak of a quiet, folksy revolution. Platinum figures for the 2003 album Brushfire Fairytales would hint at crossover appeal, but last year’s In Between Dreams saw Jack cresting the mainstream, with some 230,000 units coasting out of record stores in the first week of US release. This January, he scored comparable sales with Sing-A-Longs and Lullabies for the film Curious George – improbable figures for the soundtrack to an animated kid’s movie featuring an eco-conscious monkey and Sesame Street inspired anthems like 'The Share Song' (“If you’ve got one sandwich/Cut that thing in half.” Erm, rock on.)
Still, for all his burgeoning commercial clout, when Jack Johnson hit Dublin last month with a sell-out night at The Point, many reasonably astute individuals were left open-mouthed. Who the hell is this guy? And when did this all happen? It’s not unheard of for an artist to sell squillions more than one might imagine possible – Enya comes to mind – but this is no new age, garden centre CD anomaly. This is a remarkably prevalent phenomenon.
Truth is, Jack Johnson has been sneaking up on us for quite some time. Even if you can’t name a single tune, odds are, you’ve been listening unawares. His impossibly sunny songs are simply everywhere, providing the mellow lull in every coffee emporium and the soothing antidote to road-rage on every drive-time show.
And there is no escape. Abroad, the surf fraternity have been evangelical. From the wastes of Mongolia to inner Cambodia, wherever lurks a student with a copy of a Lonely Planet guide and a yen for the ocean, a Jack Johnson CD will never be too far away. That, however, cannot entirely account for his current popularity. But we’re riding a freak wave here, as surprising as it is unlikely.
If he weren’t so chilled out, you suspect he himself would feel discombobulated by it all. He is, however, somewhat at a loss. A couple of hours away from the gig at The Point, he’s sitting cross-legged in his dressing room, shaking his head.
“I don’t know,” he smiles. “It is a bit crazy. The George album especially. It just kinda happened.”
Much about Jack Johnson seems to just kinda happen. Many of his songs sound like they might have been composed in the shower or strummed along to bongo accompaniment down at the beach party. Even his most ardent admirers would hardly declare the music to be daring or innovative, but the stripped down, utterly unembellished aesthetic has an incredible reach and simple toe-tapping three-chord soulfulness. Even if you’re not buying, you won’t find anything to cause offence.
“I guess it’s folk,” he says. “It’s always easy to classify anything other than yourself and I’d be happy to go along with anything really. In my head I’m doing folk, but then you have the whole band bringing in their sounds. Like Merlo (Podlewski) our bassist is really into hip-hop and reggae. Then Adam (Topol, on the drums) is into Latin music. Mostly, when it comes together, what we do is barbeque music. Yeah, it’s good for barbeques.”
Though he cites Bob Dylan, Neil Young and Jimi Hendrix among his primary influences, there’s little sense of protest in Mr Johnson’s acoustic confections. The lyrics seem sweet and frothy, taking in impromptu games of football (‘Mudfootball’), stoner-friendly recipes (‘Banana Pancakes’) and a journey around his wife’s toes (‘Bubble Toes’). Tellingly, Sing-A-Longs and Lullabies for the film Curious George knocked easy-listening deity Barry Manilow off the top of the Billboard chart, while Futurama would immortalise Johnson by naming the all-the-people, all-the-time clone candidate in Earth’s presidential elections for this most appeasing singer-songwriter.
So, his relentlessly good-natured jamboree won’t start any fires under the establishment or cause the streets to run red with the blood of the bourgeoisie. There is, nonetheless, a fluffy radicalism beneath the careful timbres, soft-rock piano solos and calming élan. The Jack Johnson philosophy urges the faithful to ditch the bad vibes (‘Cookie Jar’), get out of the fast lane (‘The Horizon Has Been Defeated’) and to make use of ‘The Three R’s’ – reduce, reuse, recycle. This isn’t a call to arms, but a call to take to the beaches and relax.
“We always think of it in terms of the funk and soul influences like Marvin Gaye,” he explains. “I know I just said folk, but in terms of not trying to be edgy, that’s closer to what we’re going for. If anything, I’m getting further away from protest folk nowadays. When I pick up a guitar I feel the best thing I can do is make people feel better about where they live instead of worse. I just want them to feel warm and happy and as good as they can do. I don’t want to bring angst or tension into anyone’s life.”
If his output suggests a firm but easygoing commitment to surfer’s zen, meeting Jack Johnson only serves to reinforce the sense of effortlessness lounging about his project. Much of his career has played out as a series of happy accidents. Born in Hawaii in 1975, like most young locals, Jack would grow up hoping to board for a living.
“My dad was a well known surfer,” recalls Jack. “He was as near as you could get to professional back then. It’s funny but he never even took us to the contests. That was my mom’s doing. He wasn’t really into the idea of competition in surfing.”
Jack’s blossoming career on the ocean was cut short when, aged seventeen, a surfing accident would leave him with a broken nose, no front teeth and 150 stitches to the mouth and head. Laid up with his wounds, he turned to strumming Fugazi riffs on the guitar to pass the time.
“I liked playing before that,” he says “It was always kind of a hobby but then I started playing for hours and hours, to take it to the next level. Suddenly it became this pivotal thing in my life.”
Anxious to return to the sub-culture that spawned him, Jack would study film at the University of California at Santa Barbara. After graduation, he would make his name as the co-director, producer and occasional star of such purist surf documentaries as Thicker Than Water, Shelter and Sprout.
In 1997, he bought a van in London and travelled through France, Spain, Portugal and Italy in search of waves. With characteristic abandon, he ditched the wheels in Italy and caught the ferry to Greece. (“Mostly I stayed on the coast. I like to go to old fishing towns and harbours.”) In keeping with the wipeout set’s idea of ‘ocean consciousness’, of being at one with the sea, this freewheeling tour would see Jack sitting on beaches composing the soft, lapping rhythms that would eventually break him.
“The music thing took over at that point,” he tells me. “It turned me away from making music videos and surf films. I just prefer playing music and surfing than film work. It’s a nice trade to learn and it was definitely fun to be involved with but, honestly, it’s just not as much fun as surfing.”
It never even occurred him to record until he hooked up with fellow every-dude Garrett Hutton (aka G. Love of G. Love and Special Sauce). A guest appearance on Philadelphonic, G.Love’s 1999 album, would start the ball rolling, with Jack setting up a DIY label to house his initial EPs.
It all may sound like a curious fluke, but there’s method at Mr. Johnson’s sun-dappled party. As the owner of Brushfire Records, he has resisted the majors, retained absolute control of his career and provided a home for old friends like G.Love and Matt Costa.
“I really don’t know anything about the music industry,” he admits. “Ask me about surfing and I can help you out, but Brushfire sort of happened by accident. We realised we could put stuff out without having to deal with somebody else and then we realised we could put out friends’ records, so I thought it would be fun to have our own label. I don’t do too much of the hard grind. My friend Emmett (Malloy, Jack’s BF turned manager) runs it mostly. I just help with artwork or producing. So I pitch in my two cents that way. The stuff I can do is take bands on tour. So it’s all fun to me. I really don’t feel like I’ve grown up and got a proper job yet.”
His loyalty to the old crew is impressive, with all of his cohorts making guest appearances on the Curious George CD. Backstage at The Point, you see how this hippie commune approach pays off in the big, bad old record industry. Instead of the usual frantic kerfuffle surrounding a soundcheck, guys with sun-dappled locks mooch around saying ‘Later’ to one another. The catering wagon looks like it ought to have been delivered to a knit-your-own-yoghurt convention. The soy sauce is wheat free, the monkfish is ethical, the potato chips are organic – and there isn’t a sniff of alcohol.
It’s not very, well, rock, is it?
“Yeah, I know,” he grins. “It is funny but we get grouped with rock because we play at rock venues. But really there isn’t anything too rock about it. Not just in the music but backstage. Today is actually a more rocking day as my family is not here. They stayed in London to get some extra sleep, so we’ll meet up tomorrow and do the rest of the tour. My wife and kid are always with me and the other guys in the band bring out their families. It’s more like a travelling circus than anything. But when we go back home to Hawaii, then we feel rock. Comparatively speaking, we’re like Rites Of Spring over there. We’re hardcore!”
Talking with Jack Johnson, it’s easy to see where the nonchalant charm of In Between Dreams is coming from. Tanned and good-looking in a way that makes one think of the boy-next-door turned tennis pro, he’s every bit as warm and open-hearted as one might guess. He is also, as he suggests, very un-rock.
Passionate about his native Polynesian culture, in 2004, Johnson founded the Kakuo Hawaii Foundation, a non-profit organization that supports environmental education in the schools and communities of the islands. The Kokua Festival, the Foundation’s annual benefit event, brings together environmental organizations, eco-friendly businesses, artists, teachers, community leaders and an inevitable contingent of celebrity fans, such as Ben Stiller – who also popped up in Jack’s music video for ‘Taylor’.
“It’s all about environmental education in elementary schools,” he says, getting animated for the first time. “We do the school gardens and recycling programs and fun trips for the kids to the park and my wife and friends are all in on it. I’d really like to promote the language more too. It’s hard to learn. I mean, the state fish is called humu humunukunukuapu‘a (you can thank Mr. Johnson for the spelling) meaning ‘a fish with the pig-like nose’.
"My generation almost lost the language altogether," he adds, "but there is a re-emergence. Even the caucasian kids learn it in school now, because people realized it was almost lost and keeping a language and a culture alive is important. Any place where I don’t seem so mellow and laid back has got to be worth fighting for.”
A strong contender for the title ‘Boy Least Likely To Go To Seed’, it’s hard to imagine any industry blandishments that might lure him away from his precious board and pathologically uncomplicated lifestyle. When I mention that Paris Hilton made various lustful remarks while watching him beat Arcade Fire and Pussycat Dolls to take the Best Newcomer Award at the Brits recently, he laughs uproariously, like I’ve suggested going to tea with Adolf Hitler.
“But… I’m, like… married,” he finally says incredulously, before scratching his head and wandering back to the sound-check, muttering as he goes. Something about ‘not getting the whole Paris Hilton thing’.
I look outside The Point at the thousands of twenty-three year olds already gathered outside. It’s freezing out there, but inside Hawaii awaits.