Initially, Lux might appear more like a difficult academic quiz than a new pop record by an artist who just had a last single featured a global K-pop icon. Broken across 4 separate parts and sung in thirteen languages, we have a dizzying symphonic work that delves into female mystique, religious transcendence, and bodily transformation, often via the perspective of different saintly figures. The end of a romance—a theme handled with raw honesty elsewhere—is launched heavenward on this record, supported by the lush sound of a full symphony orchestra and input from a Pulitzer-winning songwriter within a vast roll call of contributors. Its sheer audacity by itself makes the work of contemporary pop stars appear rather modest.
That this album manages to transcend dry intellectual posturing feels nearly a miracle, and sole praise going to the artist. While this is not the first time album to blend historical sounds and modern styles, its ambitions are much greater here, and the tightrope walk more pronounced. What really elevates her fourth release, beyond its complex melodies, rich compositions, and engrained drama, proves to be an essential spirit of joy. Much like the iconic Björk at her peak, there is a wondrous sense to Rosalía's voice which sweeps you into its tornado. When she's breaking hearts apart, the listener nevertheless want to be right there through the journey.
That exuberant spirit comes forth clearly on the stirring Italian ballad about Saint Clare. It bathes in a sorrowful whirlpool over several moments. Then, all the music drops away, and there's a spontaneous laugh followed by a comment before a comically over-the-top orchestral crescendo crashes in with comedic force. The track immediately segues into the wild track driven by galloping strings, a powerful choral group, and a cameo role from the artist Björk.
"The magic with this album lies in the listener never quite know—or even wish to know—what you will go to next."
Nearly each song finishes in a completely different place from how it began. One moment examines the fleeting trappings of celebrity with a featherlight orchestration before disintegrating in digital cacophony. Elsewhere, a cut echoing her previous trap-infused style begins out moody and brooding, featuring menacing beats, until fluttering traditional rhythms and an angelic choir arrive to soften the song's rough edges.
Another crucial balancing act of Lux involves navigating the gap of bold experimentation and mainstream accessibility. This is no coincidence that the album has achieved the artist's first work to crack the upper reaches of key markets: at its core a collection of truly catchy pop songs. A song performed entirely in the English language swells around a chorus that feels to gather increasingly infectious melodies as it spirals skyward. This trick gets echoed on another expansive ballad that grows and contracts, intertwining layered melodies as a complex weave.
Lux represents popular music on a grand level, an ambitious reach for high artistry in an era of looming artificial sameness. It rejects solipsism in favor of sublime transcendence, crafting a dramatic spectacle that masterfully controls its built-in excess. This is an abundant source of hidden treasure that takes time to completely explore but doesn't seem like a chore. Where some major releases of 2025 felt like a meager scraps, Lux offers a lavish banquet at which the characters at it, some tipsy on sacred drink, flutter from discussions about historical figures, the galvanizing sensation of heartbreaking grief, and shared gossip about useless men. It is a modern-day theatrical production from music's most endlessly inventive practitioner.
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