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Rosalía has heard the call — deep, mystical, divine. LUX, her new album, is a conceptual work that narrates her spiritual ascension from the earthly to the celestial in four movements.

It’s a journey that begins by leaving behind the material world and ends in love for the divine — for creation itself, for her purpose. But don’t be fooled: even though the album is full of religious imagery, it’s also a metaphor for what love means to her — the story of finding purpose through a gift: music.

She sings in over 10 languages, as if determined to make her message reach every corner of the world. To truly understand LUX, you need to experience it the way it was meant to be heard — as a divine experience.

Are we witnessing the canonization of pop’s new saint? LUX is a complete body of work — one that only makes full sense when heard in its entirety.

First Movement

The album opens with “Sexo, Violencia y Llantas” (“Sex, Violence, and Tires”), which works like the overture of an opera, introducing all the elements that will unfold in LUX. It sets up the central conflict Rosalía explores throughout the record: the duality between the earthly world — “sex, violence, and tires” — and the divine, represented through “God,” “light,” “doves,” and “saints.” The song closes with a cinematic transition into “Reliquia,” the album’s true beginning.

In Reliquia, Rosalía narrates the start of her quest — the journey of a heroine seeking the divine through music. The track bridges heaven and earth: opening with violins and closing with a synthesizer. She recalls memories from Rome, Madrid, Japan, Morocco, Los Angeles, and London — all part of a global pilgrimage that mirrors the album’s multilingual spirit (you’ll hear up to 13 languages).

Having shed her past, Rosalía dedicates herself to art, music, and the divine on “Divinize.” She’s ready to “let the light in,” feeling her own ecstasy like a modern Saint Teresa. “I know I was made to divinize,” she sings in English and Catalan — fully aware of her purpose.

But the path to enlightenment is never easy. “Porcelana” echoes the tension between strength and sweetness we’ve seen in A Palé. She repeats the Latin phrase “Ego sum lux mundi” (“I am the light of the world”) as a mantra until she believes it — then a male voice (possibly Frank Ocean’s) appears, representing God, whispering: “Don’t be afraid.”

Male voices in LUX always represent “the Other.” The other male voice — that of Yves Tumor — appears in “Berghain,” embodying temptation and intrusive thoughts. “I’ll f*** you till you love me,” he repeats, until the music dissolves into a celestial choir — Rosalía no longer fears the feeling.

Finally, she offers “Mio Cristo,” a haunting copla sung almost a cappella — no autotune, barely any production, just her voice and melody. It’s a prayer, a dialogue with her God, and home to one of the most breathtaking high notes in contemporary pop. “How many fists have struck you that should have been embraces?” she laments.

Second Movement

Here Rosalía confronts doubt, chaos, and earthly temptation. Even though she knows her purpose, she’s human — and drawn to passion in Berghain. Only divine intervention can save her. Through a sample of Björk’s voice, her symbolic “spiritual mother,” she’s reminded to stay on her path.

To move forward, she must release the past. That catharsis arrives in “La Perla,” featuring Yahritza y Su Esencia — a track steeped in regional Mexican tradition, laced with humor reminiscent of Bizcochito. Literal knife sounds punctuate Yahritza’s vocals, making the track both a cleansing and a reckoning.

Having freed herself, Rosalía begins her ascent with “Mundo Nuevo,” a heartbreaking bulería where she renounces the world: “I want to leave this world behind.”

“De Madrugá,” born years ago and reimagined for LUX, bridges El Mal Querer and Motomami eras with its haunting Ukrainian choir.

Third Movement

Rosalía faces her own divinity in “Dios es un Stalker” (“God Is a Stalker”), one of the album’s poppiest songs. “Omnipresence exhausts me,” she admits, reflecting on fame’s suffocating gaze. It’s witty, spiritual, and ironic — “I don’t like divine intervention, but I still want to stalk my baby,” she sings, half-saint, half-human. Like La Fama, it explores the cost of being seen — this time from the altar of pop culture.

In “La Yugular,” accompanied only by a Spanish guitar, she delivers a poetic prayer without dogma. God takes many forms — Lucifer, Undivel (the Caló word for God), even love itself. “How many stories fit in 21 grams?” she asks, referencing the weight of the soul. Patti Smith’s voice appears like a prophet’s blessing at the song’s end.

“Focu’ranni” rewinds time — synths evoke the sound of a VHS tape spinning backward. “I wanted to wear white, but I wore violet,” she confesses — the color of feminism — as she frees herself from an unworthy love. The wedding bells at the end celebrate liberation, not marriage.

On “Sauvignon Blanc,” she toasts to the past — and lets it go. “I’m no longer afraid of what’s behind me; it’s at the bottom of my Sauvignon Blanc,” she sings. It’s serene, spiritual, and free of materialism — “Goodbye to Jimmy Choos and porcelain.”

Fourth Movement

“Give in — better to love than to disappear,” she begins in “Jeanne,” a solemn French-language ode to Joan of Arc. The track doubles as a tribute to queer resilience — celebrating the saint who defied gender norms and burned for it. Rosalía embodies the warrior-saint, declaring herself neither man nor woman but divine.

That defiance carries into “Novia Robot,” the most pop (and political) track on LUX. “Pretty for God. Only pretty for my God,” she chants — a satirical take on influencer culture and impossible beauty standards. It’s Get Ready With Me meets mass at dawn. A manifesto against patriarchy, it channels La Combi Versace energy through a spiritual lens.

Then comes “La Rumba del Perdón,” where Rosalía joins voices with Silvia Pérez Cruz and Estrella Morente in a sacred feminine trinity. Their voices merge in a flamenco rumba where Rosalía no longer seeks forgiveness — she grants it. “Toíto te lo perdono,” she sings.

Finally, “Memòria,” featuring Carminho, closes the circle. Over a delicate Portuguese fado, Rosalía reflects on her life, miracles, and sins: “When I die, I only ask not to forget what I’ve lived.” Harps shimmer as she ascends.

The final track, “Magnolias,” depicts Rosalía attending her own funeral — serene, at peace, surrounded by those who once doubted her. “Promise me you’ll protect me and my name in my absence,” she sings, before her voice dissolves into the heavens.

With LUX, Rosalía ascends to another level — among the gods and muses who change the course of music history. It’s an album that will be studied fifty years from now — proof that when you follow your true calling, the impossible becomes divine.

Read the original article in Spanish by Alberto Palao on LOS40