Are you ready for a Miley Cyrus surprise album? Specifically, are you ready for a Miley Cyrus surprise album, part-produced by our friendly bearded weirdo Wayne Coyne of Flaming Lips, which eulogises her beloved, though alas recently expired, pooch?
This was the neutronium mindfuck unleashed upon humankind at the recent VMAs, when, hosting the traditional evening of scandal and shenanigans, Ms Cyrus one-upped Kanye, Nicki etc with the bombshell that she was putting out a new record for free.
That the internet did not break in an ensuing stampede to stream Miley Cyrus and Her Dead Petz probably says something about Cyrus’ position in the culture – in that she is very much out there with the oddballs nowadays. Incredibly, when you think about it, it’s just two years since she twerked her way into the higher reaches of meme-fueled notoriety, with one fell crotch waggle, forever banishing the ghost of Hannah Montana. But that was then. In the intervening 24 months, Cyrus has conspicuously failed to parlay Twerk-gate into anything vaguely resembling an actual music career. Not that she seems to care one iota.
Unleashed at the height of her infamy, Bangerz was remarkable only for its boil-in-the-bag conventionality – while on the follow-through live tour her idea of knocking the audience out of its comfort zone was a somewhat undercooked Smiths cover. These were not the actions of a performer headed for world domination.
So, obviously no one is going batty with delight about the sneak-release of a new Miley record. In a curious way, that works to her benefit. With the world looking elsewhere, there’s a faint chance that Cyrus will now finally be judged on artistic merit rather than scrutinised, all over again, in her capacity as America’s fallen sweet-heart.
Which brings us, eventually, to the music. Of which there is a LOT. Recorded and released without the involvement, but with the approval, of her record label, Dead Petz runs to a heart-sinking 24 tracks. For agnostics that’s a whole lotta Miley. Scarier yet, perhaps – or perhaps not – is the news that she’s been collaborating with Wayne Coyne, a one-person acid freak-out in search of a higher purpose.
Obviously then Dead Petz is a bizarre mess – a fever dream of unexpurgated Miley-ness, with lyrics that may strive for ironic nonsense but are actually just nonsense, and a palette of sounds running from squiggly acid-rock to yammering EDM. Is it any good? Well, taken as a collection of ‘songs’ – which is obviously the last barometer anyone should use – it’s a slushing deluge of half-formed ideas and quarter-finished tunes.
As an insane lark, however, Dead Petz is both oddly likeable and likeably odd. Cyrus is putting herself out there, that’s for sure: we’ve surely reached the point where her pretence of not giving a fuck has transmuted into truly, actually not giving a fuck. She has, in other words, become the anti-Taylor Swift, her ouevre an unfiltered onslaught that makes no demand of you other than that you sit still for a few minutes and let it rattle around in your brain. It is not a pleasant experience, necessarily, but her fecklessness feels strangely and at times winningly gutsy.
Had Miley a mainstream career to fret about, Dead Petz could be perceived as a gesture of artistic self- sabotage. Instead, it is simply a burning hunk o’ crazy she tossed off with that interesting dude from the Flaming Lips. You will likely not ever wish to listen to it, in its entirety, a second time – but knowing it’s out there, breaking all the rules, is bizarrely comforting.