For reasons that escape me, today still qualifies as November. Even if you see the Post-Thanksgiving days as belonging to Christmas, I like to think of celebrating strictly within the month of December. That is why it’s difficult to pick a topic for this week’s entry. What could I possibly fit into the nook that would be appropriate? To be totally honest, I wanted to go for something so strange that it barely makes sense. After all, I don’t know that I’ll have time to talk about another kooky album between now and New Year’s. Well, that and it turns out that Miley Cyrus has a new rock album (“Plastic Hearts”) out that I plan to review.
So, why not finally get around to “Miley Cyrus & Her Dead Petz”?
If I had to guess, I feel like this is a record that most people would want to be swept under the rug. However, it’s a perfect candidate for me because rarely am I more interested than when something has a very ambiguous “Why?” hanging over it. In this case, you’re left with 23 songs that are nothing but “Why?” placed after each other, finding the 23-year-old bearing her soul in the most embarrassing ways possible. This isn’t the victory lap that many expected her to take following a ceremonious split with Disney that lead to “Bangerz” and that culturally appropriating period of her career.
To provide a personal dark secret, this is the first time that I’ve listened to a full Cyrus album. I’m aware that “Younger Now” was supposed to be good, but I slept on it. Even if I wouldn’t say that I even like “Her Dead Petz,” there is something that I can’t help but admire about it for being shamelessly self-indulgent and weird, capturing an era of one’s life so recklessly that its poorness is almost an art form unto itself. The boldness that comes from every song is something you can only have when you’re young, not entirely sure of who you are. So while I understand those who hate this album because of how juvenile some of the sex songs are and that her declaring that drugs make her super cool, I think it’s interesting as an exhibit.
Because that’s something that I feel gets overlooked in this scenario. You can argue that she was doing it all for attention, that this was all some disingenuous attempt to get street cred. As someone who stays away from the more annoying aspects of Top 40 culture (paparazzi, following personal lives), I see this period as something very natural. It’s only weird because of who she was. Cyrus was coming off of the squeaky clean Hannah Montana (one of Disney Channel’s most recognizable series) and needing to rebel in her own way.
At the risk of sounding like I’m condoning party behavior, I will say that the “Bangerz” era is something that we all need to go through in our own metaphorical way. This is especially true if you spend your life working for someone like Disney, being coddled to have this perfect image. It’s frustrating to not be allowed to fail, being called a role model when you haven’t any life experience. All that you do is present the image they wanted, and the lack of trial and error takes a toll on people. It’s why pop stars go wild, where Selena Gomez does Spring Breakers (2013) and Zendaya talks about dick pics on Euphoria.
It’s the need to self-express in a way that’s genuine. Humanity is a messy thing, and we need to learn from our mistakes. I don’t fault Cyrus for thinking that she needed to become so explicit, talking about her Xanax regiment while shaking her butt. When you’re not allowed to do something, it only makes something risqué more appealing. This wasn’t some call for attention, this was a young woman being herself, and I think some of us overreacted to it.
With that said, I am not by nature a Cyrus fan. It isn’t because I dislike her music, but I’m not in that demographic. The closest that I came to her music would be when I got to movie theaters early and the house music would play “Life’s What You Make Of It” almost every single time. It was so kooky that you might want to blow your brains out. By the time she got on Saturday Night Live to declare that she had killed Hannah Montana, even as a joke, I sympathized greatly with her. She wanted to be something more organic to herself. While I will admit that I think it’s annoying teenage girl behavior that is bothersome, it’s not necessarily bad. As we have seen five years later, it’s just a period that she needed to get out of her system.
I’d argue that it makes her serious work to follow all the more impressive. As a writer, I am aware of how much garbage I have made just to scratch an itch, or maybe that I was insecure as a young man and had no confidence in how to express myself. I sympathize with those who are imperfect about it, who learn from their mistakes and grow. It’s almost more interesting than being the standard-bearer. They’re more relatable, more human. For the rest of her career, no matter how great an artist Cyrus will be, the fact that she released “Her Dead Petz” will make someone scratch their head.
Whereas I can claim to have listened to some Cyrus, I can’t say the same for The Flaming Lips who serve as the house band on the record. At best I remember “Do You Realize” from that car crash scene in 50 First Dates (2004). However, it’s bizarre that they would ever be paired together. The disparity between their sound is wide and the idea of Cyrus making a psychedelic rock album is stranger than any hallucinogenic. It may be why her decision to release it following her hosting gig on The MTV Video Music Awards for free was brilliant. Sure, my only exposure to this record prior to this week was a Pajiba article that detailed every song and I thought “boy this sounds like a trainwreck.”
With all of this said, I find the album at worst to be an adorable exercise in being young and open to every idea imaginable. The opener “Dooo It!” is a long riff about how Cyrus likes to smoke before ending with a random dialogue exchange about sexual penetration. That’s how this album is going to go. It’s imperfect to such a degree that you find it easy to believe that she was stoned the entire time. For those who want a cohesive record, look elsewhere. Otherwise, prepare for some wild ideas that wouldn’t be controversial if this was an indie rock band. However, because it’s Cyrus, you can’t help but find everything to be antagonistic and confusing. We’re clearly entering the soul of a girl who has some serious kinks and addictions. The fact she’s so shameless about them is even greater.
It would be futile to go through every song, but I will say that the early run is better than the middle. The issue with this record isn’t so much how strange it is, but that it lacks a form. It’s 23 songs played over 92 minutes with many jam band numbers where vocals are doubled and you’re not even sure what’s going on. That’s mostly true in the middle, where Cyrus is trying to make you feel her energy on a spiritual level. I think it’s the most tedious part. Had this album been cut to even under an hour, I might be more willing to call it an unappreciated gem.
Among the early standouts are “Something About Space Dude” and “Space Bootz” which sound like she’s taking sci-fi imagery to detail a very personal side of the relationship. The sense of being isolated from them, as if they’re alien, is probably the smartest idea on an album featuring songs called “Bang Me Box,” “Fweaky,” and “Milky Milky Milk.” There is something personal woven into the text, and I think “Something About Space Dude” is especially sad because of how you’re kind of convinced that she’s lonely, looking for something more substantial in her life.
“BB Talk” is, to be honest as good as this record gets. Whereas every other song flirts with sexual energy and immaturity, this is the one that feels like it gets to her at something even more concrete. She’s even experimenting with the sound that includes an elaborate breakdown where she talks in very candid language about how she doesn’t like baby talk and that she maybe harbors feelings for another man. It’s so staggering not only for its frankness but a production that is allowed to be weird. Whereas every other psychedelic rock song relies more on those spaced-out grooves, it’s here where pop feels the most perverted, allowed to make you question if Cyrus has something more artful to say in this project.
If anything, “BB Talk” is antithetical to songs like “Bang Me Box” where she details wanting to have sex in the middle of the night. This whole section of the album is passionate, detailing her deepest desires. Whether it’s a joke or genuine kink is hard to say, but the fact that she balances it with a need to be understood makes the horniness bittersweet at times, reflecting a relationship album that is groundbreaking, serving as a pop confessional that set the bar for a decade of similar millennial records. Still, “Milky Milky Milk” (which she named her tour after) is a schoolyard joke about breastmilk and I’m not even sure if she’s the one doing or receiving it.
For long stretches, the record is forgettable. I personally think that “Cyrus Skies” is disposable and the self-indulgent example that most think this album is. However, by the closing four songs, everything comes back together with a strangely affecting look at a woman who has these insecurities. “1 Sun” is part-environmental, part-existential in such a way that it provides one of the best moments on the whole album:
I once heard Grace Jones say I have my own concept of timeI always think 'bout that 'cause I've always felt likeI was running a little behindWhat's in front of me?I don't know, 'cause I can't see what hasn't started to grow
There’s also “Pablow the Blowfish” which is similarly a deeply emotional song mixed with a strange adolescent approach. She loves her blowfish and is insecure about eating sushi, but she’s also detailing the fish’s love life and sincerely going long about how he can’t see the sky. It may seem absurd, but by the time it ends with her breaking down in tears, you’re left understanding how cathartic a record like this actually is. Nowhere else could she sing such a personal song about her relationship to a blowfish. It doesn’t make sense, but it gives depth to Cyrus as an artist that even her most accomplished serious work couldn’t.
I don’t even know how you’d begin to appreciate this record in full. This is greater to observe in small doses, to understand some piece of psychology. She’s clearly coming to terms with a lot, and the pain of youth is trying to disappear so that she can become an adult. At the end of the day, that is what’s essential about the record. It’s messy and sometimes unnecessary, but a lot of what we do in our youth is that way. The only difference is that Cyrus had access to a talented jam band and a shameless need to sing about everything that came to her mind.
There is a part of me that is curious to know if there’s any academic work on this album because I do think it speaks to a very certain time in someone’s life. It’s one that most of us would rather forget, and I’m sure most Cyrus fans have already. However, I think that if you don’t have your own version of “Her Dead Petz” in your life, to come to terms with a lot of embarrassing insecurities, then are you really an artist? Are you really being honest with yourself? I doubt that “Plastic Hearts” will be this messy, but given how well she sings on the most forgettable songs here, I’m kind of curious to see what she is in a more polished context. I can imagine that it’s a lot more enjoyable, likely to be played on heavier rotation, but I doubt I will have as many great “Why?” moments to pull from.
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