Music Travel Repeat → Backseat Benedictions: Music For A Road Trip → Vol. 10

Backseat Benedictions: Music For A Road Trip | Vol. 10— The Ones Who Refused To Be Just One Thing Edition

You’re not the only one who listens for meaning. Subscribe and join the rest of them.

There’s a strange kind of silence in a Tokyo hotel gym at 2 a.m.

No country radio. No English chatter. Just the hum of treadmills and the soft rhythm of my sneakers hitting the belt — and somewhere between the clang of weights and the echo of my breath, a southern drawl slips through my headphones.

Backseat Benedictions: Music For A Road Trip | Vol.10

“Save me… from myself.”

Jelly Roll’s voice fills the room, and suddenly, I’m not in Japan anymore.
I’m back on some back road outside Macon, or maybe a parking lot in Tennessee, or maybe just somewhere between who I used to be and who I’m still becoming.

That’s the thing about Hick-Hop — it doesn’t ask for permission to belong. It just shows up, uninvited and undeniable, carrying its contradictions proudly: hip-hop beats with muddy boots, gospel heart wrapped in tattoos and smoke. It doesn’t care if it fits your playlist, your politics, or your expectations. It’s the sound of people who’ve learned how to make peace with being complicated.

And that’s me.

That’s always been me.

I’m the bodyguard who writes poetry. The Baltimore boy who lives in Tijuana. The man who listens to Hick-Hop in Tokyo hotel gyms because it reminds him that it’s okay to be both strong and sentimental. I protect people for a living, but songs like these remind me that sometimes, the person who needs the most protecting is the one behind the mirror.

The treadmill hums like a low drumbeat under Bubba Sparxxx’s “Deliverance.”
I think about how this genre — this misunderstood, often mocked fusion — became a kind of therapy for the misfits who never fit neatly anywhere.

Maybe you know the feeling too.

You grew up 

  • too rough for the suburbs
  • too refined for the sticks
  • too honest for church
  • too scarred for the spotlight. 

You learned early that survival requires shape-shifting. You learned how to read a room, how to adapt your accent, how to blend in without disappearing completely.

But somewhere along the line, you forgot that you didn’t need to pick one version of yourself to stay loyal to.

That’s what Hick-Hop reminds me:
You don’t have to choose between the man you were and the one you’re becoming.
You can keep the southern grit and the global grace. 

You can mix 

  • whiskey and wisdom
  • sneakers and cowboy boots
  • faith and frustration 

and still be real.

Because identity isn’t a static thing. It’s a mix-tape.
It changes with every track, scratches in the vinyl, new verses over old pain.

I wipe the sweat from my face and look at my reflection in the gym mirror — fluorescent lights buzzing, tattoos glistening, Jelly Roll still singing somewhere deep in my chest — and for a moment, I see it clearly.

  • The boy who once believed being country meant staying small.
  • The man who learned that being worldly didn’t mean losing his roots.
  • The protector who found poetry in pain.

All of them — the same person.

When FJ Outlaw’s “Hopeless Romantics” starts, I laugh out loud, because that’s exactly what I am — a hopeful, hopeless romantic who still believes that every scar can be turned into a song. Somewhere between Tokyo and Sacramento, I realize this genre was never about rebellion. It was about reconciliation. It’s about finding the common heartbeat between contradictions and saying, I belong here too.

That’s the spirit of Hick-Hop.
It’s what happens when you stop asking for permission to evolve.
It’s what happens when you finally forgive yourself for outgrowing the version of you someone else needed you to be.

I think of the people back home who’d never understand what I’m doing halfway across the world. “What’s a country boy like you doing in Japan?”
They wouldn’t understand that I came here to breathe differently. To stretch out the space between who I was and who I might still be. To learn that you don’t have to leave your roots behind to grow new branches.

When Demun Jones comes through with “Feeling Good,” the irony hits me — here I am, sweating on foreign soil, heart pounding, body shaking, and somehow… I really am feeling good.
Not because I’m sure of who I am.
But because, for once, I’m not ashamed of the parts I haven’t figured out yet.

That’s what this whole playlist is — not a celebration of contradiction, but of becoming.

  • You can be the sinner and the savior.
  • You can be the poet and the protector.
  • You can love hip-hop and still crave the stillness of a dirt road sunset.
  • You can lift weights in Tokyo and still carry Maryland in your bones.

When Jelly Roll comes back around for “Son of a Sinner,” I stop running. Just stand there, hands on my knees, staring at the floor like it’s about to answer me.
And maybe it does — not with words, but with rhythm.

Because the truth is simple:
You don’t have to be just one thing.
You just have to be honest.

This volume — this entire mix-tape of misfits — isn’t about rebellion.
It’s about permission.
Permission to evolve, to blend, to belong, to break the rules that tried to keep you small.

It’s about saying, I am all of it.
The country boy. The city wanderer. The broken believer. The man still sweating his way toward salvation under fluorescent lights. The Restless, The Hopeful and The Broken.

And if Hick-Hop teaches us anything, it’s that redemption doesn’t require purity — it just requires truth.

So turn it up.
Wherever you are — back road, high-rise, or hotel gym in Tokyo — this one’s for you.
For the ones who refused to be just one thing.

The Playlist | 25 Songs for the Ones Who Refused to Be Just One Thing

1. Jelly Roll – “Save Me”

Because sometimes redemption sounds like gravel in a throat and gospel in a heart. The song that made brokenness holy again.
He doesn’t sing to the crowd — he sings for the broken parts of himself still trying to earn peace.
There’s a trembling honesty in the way he says, “I’m so damaged, but I still want to be saved.”
Every gym rep, every long drive, every quiet apology — they all start here.

2. Bubba Sparxxx – “Deliverance”

A southern psalm about being torn between dirt roads and destiny. The banjo cries; the beat preaches.
This one belongs to anyone who’s ever felt too country for the city and too city for the country.
It’s the sound of forgiveness rolling down a back road at sunset.
Bubba didn’t just invent Hick-Hop — he embodied the cost of becoming something new.

3. FJ Outlaw – “Sail Away”

There’s a loneliness in this one that doesn’t apologize for itself.
You can hear it in the cracks of his voice — that quiet exhaustion of someone who’s tried everything except giving up.
“Sail Away” isn’t about escape; it’s about acceptance. About realizing sometimes the only way to move forward is to drift for a while.
It’s the kind of song that finds you when you’ve run out of words, when all that’s left to say is “I just need a little peace.”
For anyone who’s ever stood at the edge of something — love, loss, or a life they outgrew — and finally decided to let the tide take what it needs to, this one’s your anthem.

4. Demun Jones “Feeling Good”

A song that feels like taking a long breath after years underwater. Country pride, hip-hop rhythm, peace earned the hard way.
Demun’s voice carries gratitude and grit in equal measure.
He’s not pretending life’s perfect — just finally learning to enjoy it between storms.
It’s the sound of a man who stopped running and realized he was already home.

5. Dusty Leigh – “Karma’s A ***” w. Jelly Roll & Alexander King

Some lessons don’t come with warning labels — they just hit back with rhythm.
Dusty doesn’t preach here; he confesses. You can hear the smirk in his delivery, but you can also feel the bruise underneath it.
“Karma’s A *****” is that mirror we all try to avoid — the one that remembers who we were when we thought we’d never be humbled.
It’s payback poetry disguised as a party track, the sound of a man who’s been burned and still found a way to dance in the ashes.
For anyone who’s ever had to learn the hard way that the universe always cashes its checks — this one’s your reminder that the lesson hurts because it’s working.

6. Struggle Jennings ft. Caitlynne Curtis – “God We Need You Now”

A prayer disguised as a protest. The moment Hick-Hop found its conscience and bared its soul.
Struggle’s rasp feels like scripture rewritten for the restless.
Caitlynne’s voice is the redemption arc that holds it together.
If faith ever felt like a fight — this is the song that keeps you swinging.

7. The Lacs – “Country Boy’s Paradise”

For every outsider who ever made their own heaven in the middle of nowhere.
It’s unapologetic — boots in the mud, beer in hand, freedom in spirit.
This song doesn’t care about critics; it cares about connection.
Sometimes paradise is just the sound of laughter echoing off an empty field.

8. Hosier – “To The Max” w.  Big Smo & Austin Michael 

This one hits like a late-night confession made over engine noise and flashing yellow lights.
Hosier raps like a man who’s tasted both fame and fallout — who’s been too high, too low, and finally figured out that balance doesn’t live in extremes.
“To The Max” isn’t about excess; it’s about honesty. About realizing that living full throttle means facing the truth at full volume, too.
There’s something redemptive in the way he spits every line — not to glorify the chaos, but to prove he survived it.
It’s the soundtrack to your comeback story — the one where you stop proving you can go harder and start showing you can go home.

9. Haystak – “Old and Gray”

There’s no ego left in this one — just honesty.
Haystak sounds like a man who’s outlived a few versions of himself and learned to make peace with the ghosts.
“Old and Gray” feels less like a song and more like a conversation with the mirror — slow, steady, unfiltered.
He doesn’t mourn the years; he honors them. Every scar becomes a lyric, every regret a road map.
It’s the kind of song that reminds you that growing older isn’t punishment — it’s proof you made it through the kind of storms that never make the highlight reel.

10. Big Smo – “Workin’” w. Alexander King 

Because the grind is universal — factory floor, dirt lot, Tokyo treadmill, or tour bus.
Big Smo doesn’t glorify hustle; he humanizes it.
This song belongs to anyone who’s ever clocked in tired and clocked out proud.
Some people flex cars; others flex character.

11. Upchurch – “Rolling Stoned”

A hymn for those who lost themselves chasing something to numb the ache, and somehow found clarity in the haze.
Upchurch walks the fine line between chaos and calm.
There’s wisdom hidden between the smoke and the sarcasm.
He doesn’t apologize for the journey — he just owns the view from wherever he landed.

12. Adam Calhoun – “Clean Money”

A blue-collar manifesto that hits harder the older you get. Redemption through labor, not applause.
Adam doesn’t care about trends; he cares about truth.
He reminds us that dignity isn’t for sale — and it never was.
It’s the sound of calloused hands clapping back.

13. Bottleneck – “Homegrown Country Folks”

A love letter to the kind of people who never needed validation to feel valuable.
The beat knocks, but the message hums with pride.
It’s porch light philosophy — simple words, heavy meaning.
When he says “homegrown,” it feels like a prayer.

14. Moonshine Bandits – “For the Outlawz” w. Colt Ford & Big B

Loyalty, legacy, and the kind of brotherhood forged in diesel smoke and hard lessons.
This one isn’t about rebellion for rebellion’s sake — it’s about belonging.
You can almost hear the laughter, the scars, the shared silence between verses.
For the ones who didn’t just survive — they stuck together.

15. Seckond Chaynce – “My World”

Proof that gospel and grit can coexist. That faith doesn’t have to sound polished to sound real.
He raps from the belly — where conviction lives.
Every line feels like both confession and conversation.
This is what happens when hip-hop meets healing.

16. Sarah Ross – “Calm Before the Storm”

A woman’s voice cutting through the chaos — tender, tired, and still brave.
Her tone carries defiance dressed as grace.
It’s the calm that comes not from safety, but surrender.
Because even the strong get scared before the next verse drops.

17. Redneck Souljers – “Tiller Gang”

Where humor meets history — southern identity flipped and reclaimed with swagger.
They remind us that laughter is its own kind of rebellion.
The track bumps, but beneath it is something deeper — pride that refuses to apologize.
It’s proof that culture can evolve and still stay true.

18. Demun Jones – “The Leaves” w. Long Cut

There’s something sacred about the way this one moves — slow, honest, like a prayer whispered through the trees.
“The Leaves” isn’t just about seasons changing; it’s about people changing too — how we fall, how we break, how we still find beauty in the letting go.
Demun doesn’t try to sound tough here. He sounds true.
You can feel the years in his voice, the gratitude for the pain that taught him grace.
For anyone who’s ever stood in the quiet after a storm and realized they survived — this song reminds you that falling apart is sometimes just how we bloom again.

19. FJ Outlaw – “Trailer Talk”

This one feels like home — the kind of truth that echoes off thin walls and late-night porch lights.
“Trailer Talk” isn’t about poverty or pride; it’s about people — the kind who love loud, hurt quietly, and still laugh in between.
FJ paints small-town life with detail that cuts deep: busted AC units, open hearts, and stories that start with “you had to be there.”
He reminds us that wisdom doesn’t always wear a suit — sometimes it wears grease-stained jeans and a tired smile.
For anyone who grew up misunderstood but never unloved, this track is proof that humble beginnings can still build mighty hearts.

20. Jelly Roll ft. Struggle Jennings – “Fall in the Fall”

The kind of song that reminds you relapse and redemption are often next-door neighbors.
Their voices bleed experience — two men who crawled out of the same darkness and lit a fire behind them.
Every chorus feels like a second chance sung loud enough to echo.
They didn’t just make a song; they made an exhale.

21. Tennessee Shine – “Hick Hop Thang” w. Jawga Boyz

This one feels like the genre introducing itself all over again — loud, proud, and unapologetically in-between.
Tennessee Shine doesn’t overthink it; they just let the groove do the talking.
“Hick Hop Thang” is more than a song — it’s a declaration that identity can have a twang and a bassline.
You can almost smell the bonfire and hear the laughter in every verse — rural rhythm meeting urban heartbeat.
For anyone who’s ever been told they had to choose between the country and the city, this one proves you can belong to both and still be real.

22. Good Ol’ Boyz – “Country to the City” w.  Bubba Sparxxx & JG MadeUmLook

This one bridges more than a sound — it bridges entire worlds.
“Country to the City” feels like a handshake between where you’re from and where you’re headed, proof that small-town hearts still beat loud under skyline lights.
Good Ol’ Boyz rap with the kind of pride that doesn’t need permission — confident, grounded, and grateful.
It’s the anthem for every southern soul who learned to navigate concrete jungles without losing their drawl.
Because sometimes growth doesn’t mean leaving your roots — it means planting them somewhere new and watching them survive the noise.

23. Colt Ford – “Workin’ On”

Colt doesn’t rap this one — he confesses it.
“Workin’ On” isn’t about the grind; it’s about the grace it takes to keep showing up when you’re tired of yourself.
You can feel the weight in every word — a man trying to grow softer without losing his edge, trying to stay humble without giving up the fight.
It’s redemption in slow motion, a reminder that healing doesn’t happen in headlines; it happens in habits.
For everyone still learning how to forgive their reflection one morning at a time — this one’s for you.

24. Moccasin Creek – “I Love Rock & Roll” w. Megan Ruger

This one’s pure adrenaline with a heartbeat.
Moccasin Creek doesn’t just cover an anthem — they reclaim it, bending attitude and twang into something that feels both rebellious and reverent.
“I Love Rock & Roll” isn’t nostalgia; it’s survival. It’s the sound of country boys proving they can roar just as loud as any city stage, without losing their roots.
It’s Hick-Hop’s heartbeat dressed in denim and distortion — a declaration that genres may draw lines, but real music burns right through them.
For anyone who grew up on both Johnny Cash and Jay-Z, this one’s the middle finger and the love letter rolled into one.

25. Jelly Roll – “Son of a Sinner”

The closer. The truth. The redemption arc in full.
Jelly doesn’t pretend to be healed — he just promises to keep trying.
This song isn’t about perfection; it’s about persistence.
For every listener who’s learning that the mess can still make music.
For every saint who still swears sometimes.

Closing Benediction — Be Both, Be All, Be You

The flight home always feels quieter than the one that brought me there.
Maybe it’s the altitude, or maybe it’s the way reflection sounds when you finally stop trying to prove something. Either way, the hum of the engines feels like a metronome for everything I’m still learning to forgive.

I scroll through the playlist from that Tokyo night. The same songs that once felt like rebellion now sound like release. Hick-Hop has a way of doing that—turning contradictions into conversation. You start by nodding your head to the beat, and before long, you’re nodding in agreement with who you actually are.

Because here’s the secret nobody tells you: growing doesn’t mean abandoning where you came from. It means honoring every version of yourself that got you here. 

You can be both.
You can be all.
You can be you.

You can keep the southern twang and still speak the language of airports.
You can love Jesus and still drop the occasional curse word when life cuts deep.
You can miss someone you had to walk away from and still be proud you did.
You can crave silence and still live for the bass-line.

That’s what Hick-Hop teaches if you listen close enough: identity isn’t an outfit you wear; it’s a rhythm you carry. It flexes when life demands it, bends when the world tries to box you in, and still manages to stay unmistakably yours.

So maybe you’re sitting in traffic right now, or unpacking after another long trip, or wiping sweat off your face in a gym that doesn’t feel like home. Wherever you are, this is your reminder: you don’t have to pick one lane. The highway’s wide enough for every version of you that’s still learning how to drive.

  • Let the verses of your life contradict each other. 
  • Let them clash. 
  • Let them harmonize. 

That’s how redemption sounds—messy, musical, human.

When Jelly Roll whispers “Son of a Sinner” again through your headphones, don’t just hear the ache; hear the permission. The permission to forgive yourself for being a work in progress. The permission to stop auditioning for a version of belonging that no longer fits.

Because the truth is, you already belong.

  • To the roads you’ve driven.
  • To the songs that saved you.
  • To the miles that changed you.
  • To the people who loved you at your loudest and your quietest.

So drive.
Run.
Pray.
Sing.

Do it with every piece of you

  • the country
  • the hip-hop
  • the sinner
  • the saint
  • the scarred
  • the still-trying.

And when the world asks what you are, smile and tell them the only honest answer there’s ever been:

“All of it.”

Because somewhere between the twang and the trap beat, the barbell and the backroad, you found your rhythm.
And that rhythm—messy, holy, human—is exactly what makes you real.

Capture you in the chaos,
Haha

Written By Haha Bailey 

Haha Bailey believes every playlist tells the story of a life

Haha Bailey believes every playlist tells the story of a life — heartbreak, healing, and the highways in between. Through Music Travel Repeat, he curates soundtracks for the broken and rebuilding. His Backseat Benedictions remind listeners that music is the one passenger that never leaves. Each track is a prayer disguised as a song. Listen to The Backseat Benedictions: Music For A Road Trip.

Music For A Road Trip : 625 Songs & Counting!