Stressed? Overwhelmed? Have you tried being a bit more Jack Johnson?

As the house lights crept up, Jack Johnson ambled – does he move at any other speed? – down the centre aisle of a New York City movie theatre.

It was a rainy Monday night, and SURFILMUSIC , a documentary about the singer-songwriter’s enviously low-cortisol life, had just screened at Angelika Film Centre. At 51, Johnson hovers an inch or two below the rarefied air of household-name status. His catalogue of unassuming beach pop is a staple at many a white-walled brunch spot where drinks come in jam jars.

Banana Pancakes , his song about, among other things, the tyranny of getting out of bed, has more than 750 million streams on Spotify. He is the soundtrack for a Sunday drive in a sensible hybrid vehicle, and, these days, his original devotees are, like him, navigating the turns of midlife. Surprisingly (or not), some of their kids have become Jack Johnson fans, too.

Facing the Angelika crowd, he flashed a smile as he scanned the room for questions. A young guy raised his hand. His wedding day was approaching, he said, and he was curious if Jack and his wife, Kim, had any relationship advice. Also, he wanted Jack to know that he and his fiancee had picked one of Jack’s songs for their first dance.

This hyper-familiarity, a collapsing of distance, is nothing new for Johnson. (Millions love Oasis; it’s difficult to imagine someone trying that move on Liam Gallagher.) Two-and-a-half decades into his career, Johnson emanates the energy of an old buddy who never moved away. He is not edgy, nor is he prone to provocation. Rather, he represents a challenge to the laws of time and physics: What if everything pleasant just stayed the same forever?

The morning after the film screening, Johnson shuffled into the lobby at the Gansevoort, a hotel in Manhattan’s trendy Meatpacking District. Though he carries an almost anonymous presence, he was approached for an autograph the moment he stepped onto the sidewalk. He sat with his hands in his lap and shoulders sinking into his athletic frame, and, over many cups of coffee, was exceedingly polite with the waiting staff. He is the type of star who, even during his run of four consecutive platinum albums in the 2000s, preferred to hop in the front seat when being driven.

This Johnsonian simplicity, or the performance of it, has lately become aspirational. Jack Johnson Summer – the movie, a companion soundtrack, a tour – is cruising along with a simple philosophy: Count the ways you can touch grass.

Over the past couple of months on social media, a meme has bubbled up: “Before you try to spike my cortisol, just know that I’m having a Jack Johnson summer.”

The phrase accompanies all manner of bucolic images: waking up in a tent, biking with pals, sparking up at a municipal golf course.