Jeff Bridges Is Digging It

The interior of Jeff Bridges's garage, in Santa Barbara, California, has the ramshackle ease of an extravagant dorm room: a tiger-print rug, a potter's wheel, guitars, a rogue toothbrush, taped-up printouts of ideas he finds provocative or perhaps grounding ("Enlightenment is a communal experience"), and piles of books, from Richard Powers's "Bewilderment" to "Who Cares?! A black-and-white portrait of Captain Beefheart, incongruously dressed in a jacket and tie, hangs on a wall near an electric piano. When I arrived, on a recent afternoon, I did not take note of a lava lamp, but its presence didn't feel out of the question. Bridges was wearing rubber slides and a periwinkle-blue cardigan. He excitedly spread out a large furry blanket on a recliner and invited me to sit down: "Your throne, man!" he said. Earlier this month, Bridges released "Slow Magic, 1977-1978," a series of songs he recorded when he was in his late twenties, an emergent movie star, and involved in a regular Wednesday-night jam session with a coterie of musicians and oddballs from the west side of Los Angeles (the jams were organized by Steve Baim, who attended University High School with Bridges; they took place in various beach houses and, occasionally, at the Village, the recording studio where, around the same time, Fleetwood Mac was making "Tusk"). "Slow Magic" is great and also bonkers. On "Kong," Bridges recounts a story line he pitched for a potential "King Kong" sequel (in 1976, Bridges starred as the long-haired primatologist Jack Prescott in a "Kong" remake produced by Dino De Laurentiis); the track features animated narration from the actor Burgess Meredith, and its lyrics are centered on the revelation that Kong is actually a robot. "It's a sad story, but he was just a monkey machine!" Bridges wails in a tottering falsetto. On "Obnoxious," a weirdly tender song about feeling sad and having a stomachache ("I went to the bathroom / And threw up"), there are echoes of Frank Zappa and the Band. What I like most about the record is how social it feels: friends in a room, being dumb, intermittently (even inadvertently) doing something miraculous. "When recording technology kept improving, I said, 'Oh, I don't need anybody!