first album

If, god forbid, there’s a natural disaster in L.A. in the near future, Jena Malone might be one of your first responders.

“I’ve been studying Community Emergency Response Team training,” the actor-musician, 41, said, drinking coffee in the living room of her home overlooking pomegranate trees and a canyon in northeast L.A. “Whether it’s fire management or building a neighborhood tool shed, it’s less important for me to hit career milestones now than to transform how I live on this planet. Let’s build something where we’re all taking care of each other’s needs through mutual aid.”

Those are galvanizing priorities from Malone, who’s led generationally beloved films like the sci-fi noir “Donnie Darko,” played the axe-chucking Johanna Mason in two “Hunger Games” tentpoles and recently co-starred in the lesbian bodybuilding revenge flick “Love Lies Bleeding.” For almost as long, she’s also made experimental folk and electronic records that toy with avant-garde noise and quietly poignant songwriting.

This is a wild time in L.A. for anyone concerned about the city and its culture industries, and Malone is deeply invested in both. Just before the release of her new Netflix series, the Duffer Brothers-produced “The Boroughs,” she’s released her first album in nearly a decade. “Flowers For Men” is an effects-shredded, future-primitive record, written after the birth of her son upended her obligations — and expectations — toward the men in her life and the world they’ll inherit.

“It changed everything,” Malone said, about raising a son. “I grew up learning to thrive and mask in masculine spaces. Grind culture is a masculine toxicity that I inherited and indoctrinated myself in. But parenthood offers you this opportunity to burn your entire life down in sacrifice to finding out what’s real. I had no idea what it was to be a man. All of my ideas burned down and not much was being raised back up.”

For millennial film fans, Malone’s been a consistently compelling, trust-anything-she’s-in actor since her child-star turn in 1997’s “Contact.” Few embody a tortured, beguiling Americana quite like her.

“The Boroughs” — a high-profile follow-up to “Stranger Things” from the masters of unreality, created by Jeffrey Addiss and Will Matthews — has a stacked cast that includes Alfred Molina, Geena Davis and Bill Pullman, set amid a bucolic retirement community under supernatural threat. A ragtag group of Duffer Brothers misfits teaming up to fight off eldritch horror might be the last safe bet in television.

Yet that’s also how Malone feels about the current climate of Hollywood — a once-stable neighborhood fending off malign forces. Institutional consolidation and retreat, spiraling costs, technological upheaval — they all add to a creeping sense that an era is over, and worse is coming.

“Film is in such a delicate transition. I think that where music was 20 years ago, film is now,” she said. “It’s like being on an elevator where every floor is on fire. A lot of the things that I loved about it no longer exist, even if what I love about it is still wildly potent. My stress levels go down and my creativity goes up when I’m building a world that does not rely on the film industry, even though it’s my main love.”

That feeling called her back to music on “Flowers For Men,” arriving nine years after her last LP. The ego-shattering experience of giving birth in 2016 and raising a son prompted reflections about what men’s inner lives were really like, and she wanted to write about them.

“I was raised by two moms, and I had this strange aspiration to become the dad,” Malone said, laughing. “I was the breadwinner of my family then. But being a parent was all brand-new to me. I kept seeing my father in him, my grandfather, these older relationships with men. It was asking me to look at him with curious, childlike eyes.”

“Flowers For Men” was written from a sincere curiosity about mens’ strictures, bad influences and better aspirations. To inhabit someone else’s life, she had to sound different, too.

“Film is in such a delicate transition. I think that where music was 20 years ago, film is now,” Malone said. “It’s like being on an elevator where every floor is on fire. A lot of the things that I loved about it no longer exist, even if what I love about it is still wildly potent.

(Evan Mulling/For The Times)

The most prominent instrument on the album is its layers of vocal treatments. Malone has a lovely natural voice — intimately whispered, with hints of ‘70s country rock. But here she douses it in pitch-shifted digital acid, like a late 2000s R&B record dropped in the pool at the Joshua Tree Inn.

It’s an uncanny combo, but its lends modern melancholy to “Barstow,” which has the narrative structure of a Townes Van Zandt banger but is corroded with bleary effects. “Create In Your Name” has a Billie Eilish-worthy late-night murk, with lyrics so devotional they almost sound consumptive. “Disaster Zones” is all blown-out ambience, and the LP closes on a showstopping cover of John Prine’s classic “Angel From Montgomery.”

“I just love that a man wrote a song where the first line is ‘I’m an old woman,’” Malone said. “As a female songwriter, it gives me so much permission. Now all the doors are open. If I was to give flowers to all of the different men that have touched or changed things that deserve celebration, John Prine would be one of them.”

That idea — celebrating men for the good they’re capable of — felt transgressive enough today that it cohered the album for her. But it also came with questions about how romantic partnership fit into her life. Settling into motherhood, she read up on relationship anarchy — which she sees as not abiding by tiers of connection. She bought books on ethical nonmonogamy (“Sex at Dawn” was a big one) to learn how other lives were not just possible, but maybe even more fulfilling.

(Perhaps this was not a stretch from an actor who played the wild child Lydia Bennet in “Pride and Prejudice.”)

“I had been under this societal understanding that hierarchical love, placing one partner above everything else, was the ultimate romantic expression. I could name hundreds of movies that brought that up,” she said. “But while I’m learning to take care of this child, I’m realizing that self-love is one of the most important parts of this equation. I need to have expression, some work in life that felt like another love. And then my family, and how important friends were. And all of a sudden there’s no world where I would just have one love, not even just romantic love.”

“I had been under this societal understanding that hierarchical love, placing one partner above everything else, was the ultimate romantic expression. I could name hundreds of movies that brought that up,” Malone said. “But while I’m learning to take care of this child, I’m realizing that self-love is one of the most important parts of this equation. I need to have expression, some work in life that felt like another love.

(Evan Mulling/For The Times)

“Flowers For Men” is, in her way, a bargain with that contradiction — to love men deeply, but never put them above all else, even as she got engaged to her partner, actor Jack Buckley, earlier this year.

She’s still sorting out how to present this album live. She said she’s a fan of the Dead City Punx model of renegade shows in forgotten corners of L.A. Maybe as the city seems to fall apart, she’ll find a leafy park or the back of a dingy bar that’s the right home for these strange, lonely yet hopeful songs.

“I want someone to walk into the bathroom and be like, ‘Whoa, why is there a woman singing to me?’” Malone said. “I like the idea that art makes you a little uncomfortable and you don’t have the previously held expectations to know how to hold it.”

Lyle Lovett performed Friday evening in Stagecoach’s Palomino tent with the group of killers he calls his Large Band. After the show, I sat with the singer and actor in the front seats of what I’ll call his Large SUV. “It’s a rental,” he said.

We’re in here because you want to protect your voice?
You know, I don’t smoke marijuana.

Anymore, or period?
Period. I have no moral judgment for other people, but I don’t think it’s good for me. When I smell it, I get concerned that it’s going into my body, and so I just try to stay away from it. In the artist tent, there were plumes everywhere. In fact, at our set, two songs in, I called over our assistant tour manager and I said, “Can you put some fans blowing back out into the audience?”

To send the weed back from whence it came.
Well, I don’t want people to waste it either — they paid good money for it. Jackson Browne asked me once in the parking lot of Conway [Recording Studios] — we were doing “The Road to Ensenada,” and he said, “Is it true you’re not cool with weed?” I said, “You know, I’m not.”

Where do you live these days?
In a couple of places, but in Austin, mainly.

People from Texas have strong opinions about the hierarchy of its cities. What’s the best city in Texas?
I can’t answer that.

You wouldn’t deign to.
It’s your thought, not my thought. The cities in Texas are distinct — wildly different from one another. Houston is one of the most international cities in the world. Austin is the most liberal city in Texas but it’s also being transformed by tech money. What’s going on there is analogous to what the oil business did in Houston and Dallas. San Antonio is the gateway to South Texas — it’s like 85% Hispanic. You feel the difference in culture there, and that’s wonderful. That’s my answer.

Did you ever have a move-to-L.A. moment?
I leased houses three different times. The first album I made in Los Angeles was “Joshua Judges Ruth,” in 1991, and the house belonged to a college professor who took a job at New Mexico State. It was on a street called Multiview, one switchback down from Mulholland — between Laurel and Nichols Canyon on the Valley side. I had a beautiful view of Universal City and the 101 as it came in. I remember this professor, when he was showing me the house, he called it “the river of lights.” So I lived there and then later rented the same house two different times, years apart, on a street called Torreyson, right below the Lautner [Chemosphere].

You’re set to get a star this year on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
I don’t know if that’s true. I think I’m eligible.

It’s true — I checked.
We’ll see.

Let’s say it happens, which it will. How’s that strike you?
I think it’s always an honor to be recognized by any official organization. But that sort of stuff seems completely separate from the work I’m concerned with. What’s important is the work and how you get to do it.

Which of your albums would you say is your best?
It’s impossible to say. I’m proud of the Nashville records — the budgets were smaller and I had to record those records more quickly. But when I went to Los Angeles and spent too much money recording “Joshua Judges Ruth,” that was one of the most expansive creative experiences I ever had.

Define “too much,” right?
It was too much. Instead of recording three or four songs a day, we recorded two songs. Two weeks later, you didn’t love the take, let’s record it again. There was time to search for ideas, not just document ideas — that was the biggest difference for me. The natural way of doing things — just knocking it out — is absolutely valid. But from my point of view, I was more comfortable spending more money [laughs].

Where’d you like to eat when you were working in L.A.?
When we worked at Conway, we’d have lunch every day at Lucy’s El Adobe to the point that I gave them a credit on the albums.