ROSALÍA – Lux (2025)
I tried—God knows I tried. I summoned every last ounce of my need for harmony. I opened my heart, I trusted the glowing reviews of seasoned critics. I believed. I had faith. But nothing—this album is dreadful.
Let’s be charitable: the idea behind it sounds pleasant enough. Songs in many languages, elegant arrangements that mirror each country’s mood, its idiom, its imagined soul. Fine collaborations, too. But that’s where it ends.
The lyrics are hollow—sometimes even linguistically clumsy. No trace of abstraction or metaphysics, just cheap pseudo-intellectual chatter. She sings well, yes. It’s listenable, yes. Does it say anything meaningful, even beneath the veil of some esoteric code? Not in the slightest. One listen is plenty.
And those who exalt her to the heavens? A perfect emblem of our times: contentless exaltation, cultural poverty, cognitive laziness. The moment something looks even slightly demanding, everyone hails it as “groundbreaking.”
In truth, this is school-assignment fluff—before the teacher marks it F for lack of substance and inelegant prose.