A dollop of spit clings to the old man’s grin as he hands you a note. He’d tried to convey the awesomeness of your rendition of “Burning Love” with words, but his toothlessness muffled everything in gummy gibberish. You squint down at his chicken scratch: “No Obama! Damn! What soup!” You assume it’s English. You also assume it’s a compliment. His continued chortles confirm this. One of the last stoic holdouts in the gentrifying Mayberry of St Johns, Slim’s still clings to its grizzled past like a scalded cat might cling to your leg. There’ll be none of that nü-metal here. No rap. Just barnacled classic rock and country standards. And you’re up next. Perhaps you and your lady friend are headed down to Jackson. She’ll be dancing on a pony keg; you’ll have your tail tucked between your legs. And both of you will bring the house down. What soup, indeed.