Kenny Chesney

He spits the word out as if it were coated in something foul tasting.

It consists of but one syllable, but he stretches it out into something like four, a beat for each letter, for emphasis.

"I h-a-t-e the celebrity part," country prime mover Kenny Chesney says of, well, his own celebrity. "It's interesting that I say that, and I've got a film coming out."

He punctuates the thought with a big laugh, savoring the punch line, eventually collecting himself, though in no real hurry to do so.

Chesney speaks with ease, the conversational equivalent of a stroll through a park.

"I know I can't have it both ways," he adds in a slightly more reserved tone.

But for a decade-and-a-half now, Chesney pretty much has had it both ways.

Next to maybe only George Strait, he's country's biggest act, one of the few contemporary performers who can fill a stadium all the way up to the nose-bleed sections, where the seats are practically in another ZIP code from the stage.

And before every one of his shows, Chesney goes and sits in one of those seats, just to remind himself of how hard he'll have to try to reach every last crowd member.

But despite his superstar status, Chesney's also among the least stylized artists in an increasingly stylized genre. Country went cosmopolitan long ago -- just look at some of the videos, which teem with hip-hop levels of ostentation and conspicuous consumption -- though it still pays lip service to its blue-collar origins.

Chesney, however, is almost reflexively unadorned, unhip, un-everything.

"I know I spend less for wardrobe for stage than probably any act in the music business," he says. "I go to an old vintage T-shirt shop, find some T-shirt, cut the sleeves off, buy a pair of jeans and some boots and I go to work. That may not be the coolest way, but that's what makes me work onstage."

The funny thing is, Chesney's shows tend to be the inverse of the man at the center of it all's easy-going personality: They come in loud, raucous, crashing waves of booze and bombast, with Chesney riding the crest of so much overblown emotion.

It's a mix of Jimmy Buffet's sun-baked tropicalia, AC/DC's volume and power and Strait's polished, immaculately sculpted twang.

It's this experience that Chesney has sought to capture in his upcoming concert film, "Kenny Chesney: Summer in 3D," which premieres here in Vegas at Rave Town Square on Saturday. The movie is a mix of live footage and a behind-the-scenes parting of the veil that chronicles Chesney's rise from playing 4-H fairs for free in the mid-'90s to Soldier Field in Chicago years later.

It's an immersive experience, one of the most technologically advanced pictures of its kind, with a performer's eye view of much of the proceedings.

"When I'm onstage, for years, if we've got a great crowd in front of us, like, even in the middle of a song sometimes, I'll be like, 'I wish these people could see what I see,' " Chesney says. "Well, with this film, they actually can. They are literally right up there with me. With this 3-D imaging, they're going to be onstage, they're going to be next to the cymbals with the drummer. And it's vice versa really, because I get to see it from their perspective, too."

Perspective is something that Chesney's never really lacked. His career has been a long, winding one, beginning with him playing for free beer and Mexican food at local restaurants while pursuing a degree in advertising at East Tennessee State University.

He was no overnight sensation -- it wasn't until his fifth album that Chesney hit platinum.

Nowadays, Chesney is among country's most decorated acts. He's one of the featured performers at this year's Academy of Country Music Awards, which takes place Sunday at the MGM Grand, where he's earned a quartet of nominations, including Top Male Vocalist of the Year and Entertainer of the Year, which he's won four times.

And so even though he's long been ensconced in the fast lane, careerwise, Chesney's new film has caused him to reflect on the past more of late, on the long drives and cramped confines of a band on the cusp.

He speaks fondly of those days, like he's remembering some long-lost loved one whose memory is undiminished by time.

"I was in one bus with my band for eight years. I remember when I got my own bus, I was bored to death," he chuckles, sounding like a guy flipping through a mental scrapbook. "I couldn't afford another bus, but I was happy. We were makin' a living and we were makin' music, and we're still doin' it. It's just on a little different scale now," he says before quickly correcting himself. "A lot different scale."

Contact reporter Jason Bracelin at jbracelin@ reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0476.