Pop has become a ritual practice: people gather in stadiums to watch an hour-long performance, they buy the relics of t-shirts and vinyl records, they indulge in the iconography of a leading figure by buying posters and figurines, they read all the reviews and magazine spreads to see what tidbits of wisdom their singer will say now. I’m not even saying this with the least bit of cynicism or judgement; there is a beautiful sense of universality in this practice, the ability for a piece of music to transcend language barriers and connect with people all over the world. This is what Rosalía’s LUX marvelously celebrates.

Sure, one cannot separate the Catholic spirituality at the heart of Rosalía’s latest record. The detail of singing in thirteen languages—the unofficial promotional tagline for LUX at this point—imitates one the strongest symbols of the “universal” religion, as its Greco-Roman etymological origins note. (Think of this album like the Pentecost scene in Acts of the Apostles, where tongues of fire descended from heaven and gave Christ’s disciples the power to speak the language of the people in front of them.) Yet, Rosalía’s LUX is much more focused on the ritual rather than the actual faith. This isn’t an album about Catholicism; in fact, the Spanish singer makes a point to weave in some Buddhist, Islamic, and Jewish philosophy to avoid that. Universal connection is her ultimate goal. How she achieves this is not through evangelicalism, but through redefining pop music as a bridge to folk arts.

LUX is a collage undoubtably glued together by its maker, even if the first promotional single “Berghain” was a bit of a misdirect. Overloaded with a classical Baroque orchestra, incessant German chanting, Björk yelling into the mic, Yves Tumor tacking themselves onto the ending with a trance-like melody, and Rosalía trying opera for the first time, it felt like the biggest departure from Rosalía’s musical identity and vocabulary. It’s a lot, it’s ambitious, and it’s a stand-out for sure, but it’s not what the rest of the album is. Instead, much of LUX delightfully celebrates flamenco, reimagining the Spanish folk music as a type of spiritual ritual itself. “De Madrugá” spins around the artist, contrasting her powerful solo performance with a chorus of chanting, clapping, stomping, and breathing. It’s a song of renewal, summoning the Holy Spirit to shine its light on Rosalía’s face as she experiences divine ecstasy in Ukrainian. “La Rumba Del Perdón” reflects on the self-conversion required for forgiveness, wrapping the expressions of grief within a flurry of guitar, percussion, and vocal inflections of a modern flamenco performance. (Famous flamenco singers Estrella Morente and Silvia Pérez Cruz sing side-by-side with Rosalía.) Elsewhere, the flamenco rhythm never leaves, becoming the heartbeat for her more ambitious tracks. The chamber pop tracks “Divinize” and “Dios Es Un Stalker” carry that particular, syncopated pulse.

Rosalía’s flamenco roots might be the through-line for LUX, but the album’s brilliance comes mainly from the enthusiasm to collaborate with experimental and folk artists alike. Sure, the collaborations with the folk musicians built some stronger bridges into different parts of the world. Carminho’s rich, alto fado voice against the angelic choir added to the sweetness of “Memória”, and Yahritza y su Esencia matched Rosalía’s vocal abilities despite the fact that they’re teenagers, even transforming her wittiest and most melodramatic track about her broken engagement to a lovely Mexican sierreño track. On the other hand, of the English collaborators, only Dougie F was able to seamlessly bring a modern, poppy edge to LUX in “Porcelana”. However, even if I didn’t care for Yves Tumor and Björk in “Berghain”—“Mio Cristo Piange Diamanti” is the superior opera track anyhow—I do respect their involvement in the record. At a time where pop is becoming one-note, market-friendly, and repetitive, it’s these efforts to embrace the strange and avant-garde through international collaboration that become even more meaningful.

Even the music design of LUX is polyglottal, bending to the particular styles of each featured producer. Daft Punk’s Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo is the most exciting pull, as his subtle techno production turns the airy, bright strings of “Reliquia” into an electronic whirlwind. Rosalía’s ode to travelling around the world and falling in love with different cultures and people begins as a lively string quartet, complemented by the singer’s soft and operatic vocals. At first, it doesn’t seem like the electronic producer would be involved in this at all; that is, until the synth percussion slowly rolls in, and all the gliding textures stop before getting twisted and warped into a technologic frenzy. Likewise, Yves Tumor’s ethereal production and vocal style dramatically switches up “Berghain”, and the silky clarinet section in the final requiem “Magnolias” is etched in credited composer Matt Maltese’s name, as it sounds almost ripped from his latest record Hers. Conceptually, these function as moments of surrender, of letting the contributing artist speak in their own voice. It also highlights her insatiable thirst for adventure, for forcing the doors of pop music open to accept all these different styles and discover a new, worldly sound.

Like the prayers one sings at church, mosque, temple, synagogue, or even their home, Rosalía’s LUX aims to be an album that resonates with anyone who listens. The thought that pop music is an uncontrollable force—that it comes to the musician in sudden bouts of inspiration and draws its power from everywhere—is compelling. Most importantly, Rosalía’s attitude doesn’t come across as a tacky, cynical bastardization of a real religion. Instead, her audacious pop sensibilities become just another language, another mode of expression, to show her awe and appreciation of the universe.

order LUZ by Rosalía HERE