“Old Truck” ain’t just a ride down memory lane — it’s a full-blown outlaw rap-country confession, driven by regret, rebirth, and the kind of real talk most folks are too scared to put in a chorus. Hubb Walls and Rittz come together like oil and gasoline, and what they burn through is their past — with honesty sharp enough to cut through chrome.
The beat’s dark and smoky — a slow-rolling blend of hip-hop weight and Southern rock backbone. Acoustic guitar sets the mood, but the trap hi-hats and looming bassline let you know this ain’t your uncle’s pickup ballad. It’s more cinematic than twangy, but the attitude is pure outlaw.
Hubb opens the track like a man walking back into the house he set on fire. His delivery is half spoken, half sung — full of bruises and second chances. You can hear the years on his voice, and the years he lost. He’s not posturing. He’s testifying. “This old truck seen more hell than I’ll admit / But it’s still running — guess I am too.” That ain’t poetry for show. That’s therapy with a beat behind it.
Then Rittz slides in — slick, fast, and surgical. His verse is a straight-up clinic in vulnerability through velocity. He doesn’t slow down for sympathy. He unloads. Talking about addiction, failure, family — all in that signature double-time that makes you feel like he’s got a hundred more truths he’s still holding back.
But where a lot of country-rap collabs sound like label mashups or algorithm bait, this one’s got something real holding it together: pain. And more importantly — growth. This song isn’t about being hard. It’s about being honest.
The hook brings it home with a chant-like simplicity: “That old truck still runs, and so do I.” That’s the whole story, right there. It’s survival in motion.
There’s no shiny chorus. No big radio moment. Just two men trying to figure out how they’re still breathing after everything that should’ve broke them. It’s dirty, it’s raw, and it feels like it was made for those long-ass nights when you’re alone, staring at the ceiling, and wondering why you made it when so many others didn’t.
“Old Truck” ain’t trying to fit in — it’s riding its own damn lane. Slow. Scratched-up. Still moving.
