BY HAFIZUL HAFIS
Miley Ray Cyrus or we know as Miley Cyrus is an American
singer, songwriter, and actress. Born and raised in Franklin, Tennessee, she
held minor roles in the television series Doc and the film Big Fish in her
childhood.
She is the
one of my motivators when I was young. Based on the previous lyric and this
time I want do a preview album about.
Miley Cyrus and Her Dead Petz
Miley Cyrus and Her Dead Petz is a free
23-track album—written and recorded outside the governance of Miley Cyrus'
label and co-produced in large part by Wayne Coyne and other Flaming Lips
members. It is the definition of a vanity project, an indulgent collection
of experiments that exist for no other reason than because they can.
Miley Cyrus and
Her Dead Petz dropped from the sky to cap off last weekend’s
Cyrus-hosted VMA Awards like so much phallically-deployed
glitter. The free 23-track album, written and recorded outside
the governance of Cyrus' label and co-produced in large part by Wayne Coyne and
other Flaming Lips members, appeared on Sunday
accompanied by a New York Times interview where
Cyrus detailed its making. In it, she recalls being told by her team that the
album was too long. She proceeded to add "Miley Tibetan Bowlzzz", as
an impetuous reminder that Cyrus plays by no one’s rules but her own. That
pretty much says it all: Dead Petz is
the definition of a vanity project, an indulgent collection of experiments that
exist for no other reason than because they can.
It would be hard to imagine Cyrus and Coyne’s talents combining
to worse results: there’s nothing here as pleasant as her appearances on the
Flaming Lips’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely
Hearts Club Band cover albumlast
year, nor are these collaborations audacious enough to fail in exciting ways.
Mostly they are tossed-off Diet
Yoshimi detritus, the kind of music these guys can fart out in their
sleep. There are bright spots, many of them via former mentor Mike WiLL Made
It’s handful of productions. But on the whole Dead Petz is
a borderline unlistenable slog through dorm-room poncho bullshit and blissfully
ignorant acid koans ("Can’t you see, all the clouds are dying?"),
delivered earnestly from an ex-child star seemingly unaware of how
fundamentally inseparable her own privilege is from her "do whatever the
fuck you want all of the time" ethos, and enabled by a 54 year old who
should know better.
Take "Dooo It!", the
album's single of sorts. There's a lot going on in the track—weed, flying
saucers, queries about the origins of the moon—but the part I keep coming back
to is Cyrus proclaiming, "Peace, motherfuckerz! Do it!" Far be it for
me to dash the idealistic, psilocybin-fueled dreams of a 22-year-old multi-millionaire
whose emancipatory phase has swerved from ratchet-lite twerk ambassador to
proudly pansexual LGBTQ advocate and Wayne Coyne bestie: she’s figuring it out,
as 22-year olds do, though rarely from such a precipitous platform. But
still: "Do it!" As if it were just that simple.
But that’s why having an editor is important, and why "No
parents! No rules!" is almost always better as a slogan than as a creative
mode. "Self-control is not something I am working on," Cyrus trills
on Mike WiLL cut "Slab of Butter (Scorpion)", and while she seems to
be having a blast, we are left with the utterly pointless witch-house skid
mark "Fuckin Fucked Up" (not to be confused with "I’m So
Drunk"), and "BB Talk", a rambling monologue that wastes one of
the album’s few salvageable hooks. "1 Sun" namedrops Grace Jones alongside tuneless invocations to
"Wake up, world! Can’t you see the earth is crying?" There is a twee
piano ballad about a dead blowfish friend, who her human friends eat at sushi
dinner. The circle of life, man. (She fake-cries at the end.)
Presumably, Cyrus will look back on all this and laugh, having
learned something about herself and about making art, and move on, as she seems
to have done with 2013’s Bangerz. And there are moments of promise
here—most often, when Coyne backs off a bit. She’s much better at love songs
than drug songs. "Space Boots" streamlines the album’s cosmic vibes
into an electro pulse somewhere between Kavinsky and Rilo Kiley,
with sweet, direct lyrics that pierce through the fog of bullshit: "I get
so high cause you’re not here smokin’ my weed/ And I get so bored/ Cause you’re
not here to make me laugh." Best of all is "Lighter", a
stunning, '80s-nodding Mike WiLL ballad that poignantly redeems the general
"whoa, dude" vibes: "We never get to see ourselves sleeping
peacefully next to the ones that we love," she sings. It’s genuinely
moving.
Cyrus returns to idealized
depictions of sleep and dreams often here, and given how hyper-regimented most
of her life must have been, her attraction to relinquishing control to drugs or
the subconscious makes sense. But for all the Instagram nudes and real talk
about gender and sexuality in the press, very little of Dead
Petz reveals
much about Cyrus beyond the bacchanalia and non-sequiturs. I can’t
shake the sense that Dead Petz exists
more as a glorified VMA party favor than as a work that can stand on its own.
Speaking of: the biggest irony of Cyrus’ clash with Nicki Minaj is that if Cyrus were to pay closer
attention, she might recognize Minaj as a trailblazer for the career path she's
trying to take—a massively famous woman who does things the "wrong"
way, pisses a lot of people off in the process, and refuses to give a fuck. As
far as surrealist pop albums this decade, it doesn’t get much ballsier than Pink Friday: Roman Reloaded. But the stakes
there were huge, and there is literally nothing at stake for Cyrus here. In a
way, Dead
Petzis a fascinating milemarker of pop music in the post-album,
post-Internet era: a major pop album that lands with a splash, then sinks like
a brick, as ephemeral as the Tumblr culture Cyrus draws from. Maybe that’s the
most visionary aspect of Dead Petz: it feels like it was built to
disintegrate.