The White Water Tavern is perched along railroad tracks in a forgotten part of town. Streetlamps cast a movie-set glow onto a '40s Oldsmobile in the parking lot, where cars are parked like dusty fixtures that never left. A string of lights tossed in a bush and a cat greet you at the entrance. The tap and the jukebox are both down. But for a sum total of nine dollars, you get a stiff drink and admission into a room with red canoes suspended from the ceiling and a retro bearded guy with cuffed jeans and slicked-back hair unloading his original songs with the help of an old acoustic guitar, his voice enchanting, the poetry of the South. There are no singed orange peels held over pretentious glassware here. This is Americana as it should be—raw, a little ugly, but as honest as it gets. 2500 West Seventh Street Pro tip: After dark, wind your way by foot across one of Little Rock's three Technicolor pedestrian bridges and look back at the city skyline.