You've all heard about the researchers that tell us we only use 10 per cent of our brain capacity.

And, I'll bet you've also heard from those idiots who say when we listen to country music that goes down to about two per cent.

But the truth is, whether we like it or not, country music isn't rocket science. And Alan Jackson, who was at Copps Coliseum with over 15,000 roaring fans Saturday night, has simplified the art form down to its bare necessities.

Receipt: Take one tall, slim feller, who looks like you'd imagine Wild Bill Hickock or General George Custer looked like back in the Wild West -- shoulder-length, curly, yellow hair under a big, white Stetson, drooping moustache and slightly unshaven cheeks -- put him in blue jeans so ripped up they look as if his female fans have been tearing at them for half an hour. Give him a nice, tuneful voice, nice, tuneful songs to sing, a nice, almost shy demeanor and go sit by the cash register.

Jackson is a classic country singer. A keeper of the flame.

His fans showed up at Copps carrying signs that read: Garth Who? to distinguish him from the other, more rock and roll oriented country superstar Garth Brooks.

His eight-piece band looked more like a posse than a band to me. Forget their trucks, this lot looked to me like they might have gun racks on their mandolins. They added such old friends as fiddler Mark "Hoghead" McClurg and keyboardist Hargus "Pig" Robbins to Jackson's latest recording, High Mileage, just to show you I'm not exaggerating. Leader Monty Parkey has them playing up a storm, though.

Ironically, it was the songs from the new CD High Mileage I liked least in Jackson's generous two-hour set.

A Woman's Love and I'll Go On Lovin' You, which had the lanky heartthrob sinking his voice down to its low, intimate regions and purring in spoken verse about "long after the pleasures of the flesh" have faded how love lives on. For me that's too much syrup.

I prefer the man with his head back and band howling like a pack of hounds at his heels as he rolls through such stuff as Little Bitty, Don't Rock The Jukebox, Chattahoochie, She's Got The Rhythm (And I Got The Blues), I Don't Even Know Your Name and even that old chestnut Summertime Blues.

And just because he's pure country doesn't mean Jackson is low tech. Some of these tunes had great videos to go with them.

Chattahoochie had Jackson water-skiing hilariously in the big muddy, She's Got The Rhythm had a very sensuous lady doing bumps and grinds that sure did have "the rhythm" and everything else you'd ever want besides. Between The Devil And Me had the gates of Hell yawn open with fire and brimstone but it was Midnight In Montgomery that told where Jackson is really from musically.

It's a trip, pilgrimage is the right word, really, to the grave in Montgomery, Alabama of country music icon Hank Williams. These are Jackson's roots and he sticks by them.

And it was these traditional values that formed the best part of the show for me.

He gathered the band around him, dropped the electronic instruments for acoustic ones and sang his early tunes. It wasn't "unplugged" -- Jackson is too honest to use that word. He called it his "half wired" set but the abusive volume levels dropped to something bearable without earplugs and at least the words of such early hits as Here In The Real World became clear.

He even did some bluegrass, reminding one of that fabulous take on his Honky Tonk Christmas album with the great Allison Krauss, The Angels Cried.

The gorgeous Deana Carter opened the evening dancing about in skin tight leather and bare feet. She's cute, pert and can sing but I find her voice so similar to so many other Nashville nymphets, it takes an exceptional song to lift her above the pack.

This she had in Strawberry Wine and that fabulous song of the date from hell, the title of which should go straight into the country music hall of fame: Did I Shave My Legs For This? She produced a nice, contemporary foil for Jackson's more traditional fare.

JAM! Rating: 3.5 out of 5