When Zack King abandoned his former life for Los Angeles, he carried with him the volatile energy of someone refusing predetermined narratives. The independent guitarist and songwriter transformed geographic displacement into artistic urgency, channeling the disorientation of reinvention into a prolific creative period.

Yet productivity alone proves insufficient—King sought therapeutic intervention during a period of crisis, emerging with renewed purpose and sharper vision. His work interrogates boundaries, challenges accepted frameworks, demands freedom from the invisible architecture constraining human potential.

Songs I Wrote Instead of Texting You arrives as King’s most concentrated statement yet: twelve tracks functioning as open letters, each bleeding authenticity, each weighted with equal measures of anguish and optimism. The album title itself reveals King’s methodology—these songs replace communication, sublimate impulse, transform the unsent message into cathartic art.

“Intro” establishes the record’s gravitational pull through ominous, accumulating tension. The brief opener serves as threshold, as point of commitment: forward motion becomes the sole option. King constructs a sense of irreversibility, preparing listeners for immersion rather than casual engagement. The track functions as psychological preparation, a dimming of lights before the main event.

“What’s on Your Mind?” extends this opening volley into full-scale assault. Intricate guitar work maintains perpetual momentum while King’s vocals command the foreground—his voice carries electricity, radiates conviction. During moments when instrumentation recedes, his delivery sustains the urgency, holding focus through sheer force of presence. The production creates spatial depth through distant vocal echoes, adding textural complexity to the otherwise immediate sonic assault.

The album pivots with “Over&Over,” embracing deceleration as emotional strategy. Languid rhythms access buried memories, summoning even those too painful for regular contemplation. King proposes that processing separation requires acknowledging joy alongside grief—the good memories deserve preservation as tools for healing, as fuel for forward movement. The track operates as necessary pause, creating space for reflection before the next surge.

“Rom-com” detonates this introspective moment with hurricane force. The track arrives as immediate corrective, sweeping away melancholy while announcing combative intent. King’s rebellious spirit crystallizes here, matched by disarming honesty. A female voice enters the arrangement, amplifying rather than softening the track’s defiant core. King’s own performance radiates power throughout, his vocals maintaining relentless energy that refuses to release attention until the final note decays.

“You Got Me!” intensifies this confrontational energy further. The irresistible melodic hook demands physical response while King’s delivery channels pure provocation—the vocals dare listeners, dare circumstances, dare anyone to impede momentum. The subtext reads clear: resistance proves futile. Yet King’s challenge carries calibrated aggression, measured enough to invite engagement rather than alienate, impossible to dismiss or ignore.

Following this peak intensity, “Can’t Do It Alone” offers tenderness as counterpoint. The track reads as confession, as the vulnerable aftermath of loss. King evokes cinematic moments of sacrifice—protagonists surrendering love, searching for meaning in absence. The production choices here reveal sophistication, thoughtful processing that serves the emotional content.

Closing track “We’re Alright” functions as delayed detonation, obliterating complacency within moments. Initial impressions of calm dissolve rapidly as drums and guitar accumulate force alongside King’s ascending vocals. The combination generates palpable energy, sparking surprise and elation. Depression and melancholy crumble under this assault, replaced by action-oriented momentum. As throughout the strongest moments here, separating King’s vocals from instrumentation becomes impossible—they exist as unified organism, elements achieving synthesis.

Songs I Wrote Instead of Texting You delivers concentrated emotional voltage. The album contains full spectrum—rebellion against convention, challenge to accepted reality, renewable energy sufficient to fuel motivation and action. King’s sequencing demonstrates clear intentionality: high-intensity tracks alternate with gentler moments, preventing exhaustion while maintaining engagement from opening to close. This structural consideration reflects respect for listener experience, mindfulness about pacing and impact.

The album’s psychological dimension carries particular weight. King’s honesty creates permission for listeners to access their own buried emotions—the feelings that daily life obscures resurface during these tracks. The listening experience becomes archaeological, excavating what remains deliberately hidden. This quality grants the record significant replay value: each return visit facilitates release of historical pain while preserving whatever beauty those periods contained.

Zack King has crafted something that functions as both document and tool—a record that captures specific personal turmoil while offering transferable catharsis to anyone willing to engage fully. Must-listen!

*This review was made possible by SubmitHub