JOHNSON MAY NOT BE hitting the campaign trail, but with a new album in the wings and a worldwide tour to follow, he's getting plenty of attention. Moments after we arrived at Brushfire Records, Johnson's PR team grabbed him for a photo shoot with Entertainment Weekly.

As he posed in the foyer, guitar over his shoulder, I noticed a surfboard—a fat, short fish design that harks back to the loose and smooth soul surfing of the 1970s—leaning against the wall in a corner. The board and the revamped 1920s house both speak to the humbler, back-to-basics environmentalism that appeals to Johnson: It's all about embracing the past, returning to the simpler life—but with better technology.

As Johnson explains it, Kelly Slater started riding new high-performance boards in the 1990s that were ridiculously thin and narrow. Slater, who's known as"the Freak" for his extraordinary surfing abilities, could ride these boards with flair, but lots of other surfers couldn't. Then the fish and other retro styles made a comeback. "You jump on there and suddenly you can glide again," Johnson says. "I think about this in terms of music or anything: Sometimes things progress to the point that it's not really progressing anymore. You get to this dead end, where you need to look back."

As much respect as Johnson has for the past, at the moment he's also looking toward the future. Brushfire is a growing enterprise, with a roster of musicians that now includes G. Love, Zach Gill's longtime band ALO, Matt Costa, Rogue Wave, Money Mark, and Mason Jennings. All share Johnson's just-kicking-it sensibility. "We do things that feel very handmade," says Malloy.

Sleep Through the Static continues the tradition, although Johnson ventures further away from acoustic than he's ever strayed, playing electric guitar on several tracks. This new sound won't remind anyone of Hendrix, or even a plugged-in Dylan, and Johnson is certainly not remaking himself to win over the critics. "People like Jack, and his records mean a lot to them," says Malloy. "All people need is another one. It doesn't have to be different. It just has to be 14 new songs."

Later, as the sun's about to set, Johnson moves to the roof with the EW photo team. I head down to the studio with Gill, who sits on a giant exercise ball in front of a piano and plays a few of his songs for me—at one point the room momentarily goes dark because the lights are on a timer—starting with "All Still Family" and then moving on to a lovely dirge he wrote for the 2007 documentary Arctic Tale. He composed the tune for a scene showing a starving polar bear cub that dies as its mother stands by helplessly while the snow slowly covers its body, but the song didn't make the final cut. Now it, like everything else here, is being recycled—and it may well appear on Gill's solo album.

A few minutes later, Johnson returns and sits at the drums. "Let's do 'Family,'" he says. "1-2-3-4 . . ." As they jam, they look for all the world like a couple of friends in a garage, transported somewhere far away, lost in the sound. They aren't playing for me or anyone else, nothing is being recorded, and the door is shut, so the neighbors have no reason to complain. They're just making a few footprints in the sand that the tide will soon erase. And no fluorescent lightbulb, biodiesel vehicle, or low-flush toilet is greener than that.