Bjarnason, who has moved fluidly between classical and contemporary scenes and has worked with acts such as Sigur Rós, describes his involvement as serendipitous. Trained in classical music but experienced in pop, electronic and jazz contexts, he says he was comfortable navigating the different musical vocabularies Rosalía was mixing into her own language. Nearly a year ago he flew to London and laid down the orchestra parts in roughly a week, working in the studio day after day with Rosalía and her team. He recalls her being very hands-on—an approach he finds energizing when collaborating with artists.
Conducting, Bjarnason explains, is a physical form of communication. The gestures people see—downbeats, patterns that signal two, three or four—are a kind of sign language that keeps time and conveys basic structure. Beyond that, the conductor’s movements translate interpretive choices about sound, phrasing and shape; it becomes an “interpretive dance” between baton and players. Those basic gestures are largely universal, he adds, though orchestras in different cultures may respond differently to dynamics and nuance.
Musically, Lux pulls from many traditions. A large portion leans on Iberian song—flamenco and fado—territory that was new to Bjarnason but rewarding to work with. Other moments are squarely within classical forms: “Mio Cristo piange diamanti” functions like an aria, more like a scene from an opera than a radio pop song. “Berghain,” by contrast, blends dramatic choral and string gestures that called to mind Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana and even Baroque flourishes reminiscent of Vivaldi—strings pushed forward with theatrical force. Across the record there’s a freedom of form uncommon in mainstream pop: tracks unfold in arcs rather than strict verse–chorus templates, an elasticity often associated with contemporary classical composition.
Bjarnason also senses an Icelandic imprint on the album, though he’s wary of reducing a nation’s music to a single sound. Still, listeners often associate Icelandic artists—Björk, Sigur Rós, Jóhann Jóhannsson—with slow-moving, ethereal textures and expansive, roomy orchestrations. He believes some of that aesthetic surfaced in his arrangements: an openness in orchestration and an attitude that comfortably crosses genre boundaries. In Iceland, he notes, musicians frequently move between classical, rock and pop, and that permeability resonates with Lux’s eclecticism.
Looking ahead, Bjarnason says he’s eager to keep collaborating and is increasingly drawn to electronic music—particularly hard techno after a recent visit to Detroit and its techno history. He’s beginning to explore that territory and expects to work with others who can guide him deeper into the scene.
For attentive listeners there are a few standout details to notice: on “Porcelana” the contrabass clarinet plays a prominent role, providing a deep, rumbling sonority not commonly heard on pop records. It’s one of several textural choices that help Lux sound both global and idiosyncratic—a record where traditional forms, orchestral color and modern experiment meet under a conductor comfortable moving between musical worlds.”}
