Platinum is where Jackson’s 1991 album Don’t Rock the Jukebox landed, confirming that, at 33, the singer has earned the right to hang his Stetson on the rack reserved for C&W’s Biggest Hats. As down-home as a side of grits, the honey-voiced, honey-maned Jackson is bemused by his ability to drive women fans absolutely fried green bananas. He began wearing a 5X beaver silverbelly rancher “just to cover up this big scar on my forehead where I fell when I was young.” The shoulder-length locks came about because “traveling around, I never had time to get a haircut, and everybody said, ‘You know, we kind of like it long.’ ” Shoot, says the lanky, 6’4″ singer, “in high school I didn’t really have the quarterback good looks to help me out with girls, though I had a pretty interesting car.”
That was in Newnan, Ga., where he married his teen sweetheart, Denise, now 32. He treated music as a hobby until 1985, when Glen Campbell gave Denise, then a flight attendant, his card after learning of her husband’s musical talents. Soon the Jacksons moved to Nashville, and within four years Alan had signed his first recording contract. He has since had seven No. 1 singles and earned two Grammy nominations and a raft of country music awards. Jackson’s idea of beauty? Next in line after Denise and their daughter, Mattie, 2 next month, the devout fan of The Andy Griffith Show reruns confesses, “Well, I’ve always kinda liked Aunt Bee.” Aw, shucks.