At 66, Alan Jackson stands barefoot in the dew-covered grass behind his old home in Newnan, Georgia, the morning mist curling around his ankles like a memory come to visit. No soundcheck. No guitar. Just him — and the stillness of the place that raised him. He looks out at the rusted clothesline, the cracked swing set, the porch where his mama once called him in for supper. So much has changed, but somehow, this ground still feels like truth. He presses a hand to his heart, eyes misting, and says quietly, “I’ve sung about where I’m from my whole life… but I think I forgot to come back and feel it.”
When it comes to telling honest stories about working folks and where they come from, few artists do it better…