Rosalía has released a divine album. The Spanish singer also shines with her scorn and mockery.

Drums and trumpets, strings and choirs. The lush sound of "Lux," Rosalía's fourth studio album, sometimes makes you want to sing Beethoven's "Ode to Joy." But the Spanish pop musician sets her own themes. In short: God and the world.

She sings about this in "Sexo, Violencia y Llantas," the first song. At first, only a piano can be heard, spreading out in romantic arpeggios over time and gradually growing louder. At the height of the tension, the singer's voice enters – right in the foreground, as if she were standing on a stage, a platform, a pulpit.

“Primero amaré el mundo y luego amaré a Dios,” sings Rosalía in her fervent soprano – first she will love the world and then God. But then she wonders who could mediate between heaven and sinful earth. Perhaps some new messiah? By the end of the album, however, one thing is clear: no one is as familiar with earthly desire and heavenly love as Rosalía herself.

Being overwhelmed by music can have various reasons. Is it the density of its expressive means? Or sheer artistic talent? Perhaps it's the noise of the reception, which leaves little room for personal feeling. In the case of Rosalía's "Lux," all of these things come together.

The pop singer initially surprises with her material. It draws from classical music: she uses orchestras, string quartets, and choirs; in addition, there are many borrowings from European folk music such as Fado and, above all, Flamenco. In this respect, "Lux" comes across as a celebration of European musical culture.

Rosalía doesn't limit herself to clichés and superficial appeal; she has also acquired classical sensibilities. This is evident, for example, in her handling of rhythm. Rosalía varies the meter and creates variety through triple, quadruple, and 5/4 time signatures. Most of the time, however, the music isn't subordinate to a continuous beat, as is typical in pop music. Instead, the singer repeatedly takes space for expressive elongations, for rubato and ritardando. She needs this for the many embellishments in her flamenco phrasing as well as in ballad-like songs. "Mio Cristo Piange Diamanti," for instance, is reminiscent of an operatic aria through its free rhythmic structure.

Nevertheless, the Spanish singer doesn't suddenly present herself as an opera diva. She establishes herself as a pop star who handles the means and techniques with great confidence. To amplify effects, she repeatedly creates stark contrasts between fortissimo and piano, between gentle strings and hard electronic beats.

Rosalía's music can be compared to film soundtracks, where stylistic elements support the narrative drama. With "Lux," one thinks particularly of fantasy films: because, as in fantasy stories where archaic moments and science fiction overlap, historical chronology seems to have been disregarded as an organizing principle in Rosalía's work as well.

But that's typical of the present day. In the age of music platforms like Spotify, musical events from different eras are just a click away. The simultaneity of the non-simultaneous reigns supreme. In this sense, Rosalía, who describes her music as a "puzzle" or "labyrinth," skillfully and nonchalantly juxtaposes Baroque and Flamenco, Romanticism and Pop.

For generations unfamiliar with classical music or any other older tradition, Rosalía's exuberant sonic menu may have a compensatory effect: "Lux" promises not only a connection to the cultural legacy of Bach, Beethoven, and Bizet, but also, in our crisis-ridden present, a sense of religious reflection. This may explain the euphoric response to this ambitious album.

Artistic ambition is essential in art. In pop music, however, overambitious symphonic attempts often lead to a bombastic emptiness or pure kitsch. "Lux," however, stands far above the pitfalls of symphonic rock and pop. Although not entirely free of ponderous pretension, "Lux" proves itself to be a mature album.

A song like "Berghain" (featuring a guest appearance by Björk) might not be entirely convincing. The Vivaldi-esque track is jarring due to its peculiar German lyrics ("The flame penetrates my brain like a lead teddy bear"). Otherwise, however, the linguistic diversity that is part of Rosalía's concept is compelling. She not only sings in Spanish, but also quotes thirteen other languages ​​– from English and Ukrainian to Hebrew and Latin.

The aim is to conjure a special atmosphere through language. Rosalía intones "Memória" in Portuguese because it is a Fado. And in "Porcelana," a Latin Mass is evoked when she chants "Ego sum nihil, ego sum lux mundi" (I am nothing, I am the light of the world).

The more often you listen, the more ideas and flashes of inspiration are revealed on "Lux." And so the album truly proves to be the original, unique work that the ambitious and talented Spaniard intended it to be. Rosalía was aided in this by a whole host of composers, instrumentalists, and producers—namely, composer Caroline Shaw and producer Noah Goldstein.

And Rosalía herself shines as a singer, possessing both vocal power and a wide range of vocal means – from whispering and whimpering to hypnotic spoken word, to the exuberant expressiveness of flamenco singing and excursions into the registers of a pop queen of the night.

And finally, amidst her lavish artistic religion, she also finds room for human mockery and derision: In "Perla," the subject isn't God, but the ex (apparently the Puerto Rican pop singer Rauw Alejandro). And he is now showered with curses in waltz time: Rosalía ultimately concludes that he deserves the gold medal for the biggest bastard.