At first glance, this album might appear closer to a difficult university challenge rather than a new popular music album from an artist who just had a previous single was a collaboration with a global K-pop star. Broken across four separate movements and voiced in thirteen tongues, we have a dizzying orchestral-influenced opus that delves into feminine mystery, religious ascent, and physical change, frequently by way of the lens of different women saints. The end of a romance—a topic treated with raw openness elsewhere—is launched heavenward here, buoyed by the lush sound of a full symphony orchestra and input from a Pulitzer-winning songwriter within a long roll call of collaborators. The pure daring by itself renders the efforts of contemporary pop stars appear quite modest.
That Lux manages to avoid dry academic chin-stroking is nearly miraculous, and complete credit going to the artist. While this is not the first time album to fuse historical sounds and the present, its stakes are far higher here, and the balancing act more pronounced. What truly raises this fourth release, outside of its multilayered melodies, rich arrangements, and inherent drama, proves to be an essential sense of joy. Similar to the legendary Björk at her height, you find a wondrous sense to the vocalist's singing that pulls you into its tornado. When she is tearing your heart in two, you nevertheless desire to stay alongside her for the ride.
That playful energy comes forth clearly on the stirring piano-led ballad inspired by a saint. It luxuriates in a string-drenched whirlpool for several moments. Suddenly, all the music falls away, to reveal there's a gleeful giggle followed by a comment before a comically exaggerated string surge crashes down with comedic force. The song immediately segues into the wild single driven by galloping orchestration, a powerful choral group, and a surprise role from none other than Björk.
"The charm of this album lies in you rarely exactly understand—nor wish to predict—what it will go next."
Almost every track finishes in a completely different place than how it started. A track explores the transient nature of fame with a featherlight orchestration only to collapsing into digital chaos. Elsewhere, a song echoing the artist's earlier rhythmic work begins off moody and brooding, with prowling beats, until fluttering flamenco rhythms and an angelic chorus enter to soften its jagged corners.
A key achievement on Lux involves straddling the line of radical experimentation and mainstream accessibility. This is little coincidence that the album has become her highest-charting work to crack the Top 5 of major markets: its heart contains a collection of truly undeniable hits. A song sung primarily in English builds on a refrain that seems to gather more and more infectious melodies as it spirals upward. That trick gets echoed by another expansive ballad that expands and contracts, weaving layered melodies like a complex weave.
This album is pop on a maximalist level, an ambitious reach for capital-A Art in an era of impending artificial blankness. It eschews solipsism for glorious transcendence, crafting a dramatic drama that skillfully controls its built-in excess. This is a deep source of buried gems that takes time to fully mine but never feels like hard work. Where other big pop albums of 2025 felt like feasting on scraps, Lux is a sumptuous feast at which the guests at it, perhaps tipsy on sacred drink, flit from discussions about ancient figures, the profound sensation of soul-shattering grief, and common stories about hopeless partners. In essence, it's a contemporary theatrical production from pop's truly endlessly creative visionary.
