At first glance, this album may look more like a challenging university challenge than the latest pop album from a musician who just had a previous hit was a collaboration with an international K-pop icon. Broken into four different parts and performed in thirteen languages, this is a head-spinning orchestral-influenced work that delves into female mystique, spiritual ascent, and bodily change, often by way of the lens of different female saints. The dissolution of a love affair—a topic handled with grounded honesty elsewhere—is launched skyward here, buoyed by the constant sound of a full orchestra and contributions from an award-winning composer within an extensive roll call of contributors. Its sheer daring alone renders the efforts of contemporary artists look rather small.
The fact that this album manages to avoid dry academic posturing is nearly miraculous, with complete credit going to the artist. Although this is not her first album to fuse historical sounds with modern styles, the ambitions are far higher here, and the tightrope walk far more precarious. The element that really elevates her fourth album, beyond its multilayered melodies, rich arrangements, and engrained drama, proves to be a core sense of fun. Similar to the iconic artist during her peak, there is a captivating quality to Rosalía's voice that pulls you up in its tornado. When she's tearing hearts in two, the listener nevertheless want to be right there for the ride.
That playful energy shines clearly on a stunning Italian ballad inspired by Saint Clare. It luxuriates in a string-drenched whirlpool for several minutes. Then, everything drops away, to reveal we hear a gleeful laugh followed by a comment before a hilariously over-the-top orchestral crescendo thuds down like comedic force. The song immediately shifts into the frenetic single driven by galloping strings, a powerful choral group, and a surprise appearance from the artist Björk.
"The magic with this album is that the listener never exactly know—or even wish to know—what it is going next."
Almost every song ends in a completely distinct point than where it started. One moment explores the transient nature of celebrity over a featherlight orchestration only to collapsing into digital cacophony. Another, a cut that recalls the artist's earlier rhythmic work starts off dark and brooding, featuring menacing beats, until fluttering traditional rhythms and a heavenly chorus enter to soften its rough corners.
Another crucial balancing act on the album is straddling the gap of bold experimentation and mainstream accessibility. It is little coincidence that it has achieved the artist's highest-charting work to crack the upper reaches of key charts: at its core a suite of truly catchy hits. A song sung entirely in English builds on a chorus that seems to gather more and more nagging melodies while it spins upward. This trick is echoed on another expansive ballad that expands and constricts, weaving layered melodies like a complex tapestry.
Lux is pop on a grand scale, an ambitious grasp for high artistry amid of looming AI-generated sameness. It eschews solipsism for sublime elevation, creating a dramatic drama that masterfully controls its own inherent ridiculousness. It is a deep well of buried treasure that takes time to completely mine but doesn't feels like a chore. While some major pop albums of 2025 felt like a meager meal, Lux is a sumptuous feast at which the characters at the table, some tipsy on holy drink, flutter between conversations about historical figures, the profound feeling of heartbreaking sadness, and shared gossip about hopeless partners. In essence, it's a contemporary theatrical production from music's most restlessly creative visionary.
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By Rebecca Davis MD
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