There are many people out there more deserving of our scorn than Miley Cyrus. Ted Cruz, my boss, Aaron Hernandez. Muslims. But the former Disney queen and her trainers have shot her forced celebrity right out of a twerking booty, spraying the stinking brown cannibalized remains of her once guileless childhood in our awaiting faces. MileyÂs fucking nasty, infamous tongue is the newest lightning rod for our collective disdain while her latest album rides the #1 slot seemingly endlessly, like Cyrus herself in an NBA locker room.
And I understand too that the young woman is an easy target here at our website, a place where the average reader couldnÂt get laid with 5 cold gÂs, that would sooner be invested in something fruity like treasury bills or an autographed Tom and Jerry cell.
Nonetheless, disguised in yellow raincoat and black socks, I picked up Bangerz, CyrusÂ grotesquely over-produced, over-discussed 16 song album, just the latest pop culture offering to blow away the last remnants of Western virtue.
ItÂs a filthy affair throughout and Miley warbles ÂI just started livingÂ on the opener, ÂAdore YouÂ a warning charge aimed at poor olÂ dad ahead of surely showing the world her browneye before the yearÂs out. The songÂs a showcase for CyrusÂ HGHÂd low-range vocals that, bereft of studio magic, would sound more like Joan Rivers on karaoke night at the bowling alley.
Casting aside any innuendo, Miley raps
Âeverybody in line in the bathroom,
trying to get a line in the bathroomÂ
tucked between more sound walls and extremely expensive beeps and swooshes on track 2, ÂWe CanÂt StopÂ.
Look, I get it, 20 year old girls do not want to listen to Nuclear Assault or have sex with me and need that light escape from the stress of watching reality TV, working out, skipping Photography class, and recharging their EBT cards.
A young, high rise leather boot wearing, E-cig inhaling vixen hitting da club on Thursday night is going to agree to disagree with me, in the form of spitting a loogie in my face, that singers who write their own music might be deserving of more praise and even sales, than those rehashing the words and music of fat ass programmers and studio geeks like Pharrell and Will.I.Am.
Fellow non-musician lip syncher Britney Spears joins Miley on ÂSMS (Bangerz)Â that admittedly had a catchy retardation to it but after two minutes just sounds like elves singing in SantaÂs workshop. About making dildos, probably.
Following that is Â4 x 4Â, the second most loathsome track on the record simply for being one of those redneck chic country jamz, the imagery depicted having taken over my fucking Facebook, and somehow is poorly connecting the world of David Allen Coe with that of Nelly, who guest raps.
I donÂt understand my place in the universe anymore.
With FutureÂs help,ÂMy DarlingÂ destroys Ben E. KingÂs wonderfully plaintive ÂStand By MeÂ and reminds us all that if rappers are going to steal samples in a post-Beastie Boys age, always at least make it 2pacÂs ÂChangesÂ.
The first single, ÂWrecking BallÂ does contain hints of Axl Rose/Elton John grandeur, but is eventually betrayed by ten too many tawdry studio tricks and a general aura of bullshit too closely associated with the singer and her legion of backing decepticons. ItÂs designed as an earnest, emotive wailer but can you really see anyone out of their teens taking this crap seriously, in the same way we can the vastly superior, and more genuine, breakup song ÂBad Romance?” Where the latter had the actual singer/songwriter busting out in what appeared to be real tears in the video, ÂWrecking BallÂ has a naked, syphillisy Miley swinging around on construction equipment.
ThereÂs some other beepy, blirpy sound saturated filler stuffed in every orifice of this pasty mess and it appears the label even let Miley co-write one. The lyrics of ÂFUÂ are awful and yet IÂll give the girl a little credit here, as much as IÂve dissed her so far. Somehow, Cyrus stumbled across the right influences in her vocal output at least on ÂFUÂ. Her voice and the accompanying music call to mind (a little now) Gin Wigmore and Adele. Albeit mixed with some white dogshit.
The other track I found somewhat… banging (kill me) is ÂGETITRIGHTÂ a hand-clapper with a ridiculously catchy whistle IÂm sure was stolen from an honorable Cherokee man whose tribe RCA Records then exterminated, so as not to pay any royalties. Though written no doubt by a computer generated algorithm, with its stutter step shuffle and that infectious whistle, expect this one to be the next hit.
ÂDriveÂ is a stupid song, as is ÂSomeone ElseÂ. What pop star releases a 16 track record?
ÂLove, Money, PartyÂ and ÂDo My ThangÂ are just horrible, ugly white girl raps. If Salt-n-Pepa encountered this pre-programmed, mind numbing dreck theyÂd Push It – right off a fucking cliff.
Miley puts back on her big girl pants for the evil bitch justifying ÂMaybe YouÂre Right.Â With itÂs huge, arching chorus and ode to mental illness lyrics, young women across America will utilize this as the soundtrack to false rape accusations and Facebook threats of violence against anyone who dares harm their filthy, government subsidized Âbabies.Â
ÂOn My OwnÂ has 46 writers and producers and in ÂRooting for my BabyÂ I was hoping for maybe a throwback to the blue collar fistpumpers we grew up with like ÂLetÂs Hear it for the BoyÂ or ÂLiving on a PrayerÂ but instead we get inspirational lines like
Â…you go through a lot
depression makes you hotÂ
Or maybe she was saying ÂpressureÂ. Who cares anyway? ItÂs just another sex saturated tribute to getting plowed, masked as another attempt by Team Miley to cater to the brick and mortar crowd.
Ludacris helps close out this skeezy regressive shitpile with the originally titled ÂHands in the AirÂ, which I found to be an unspectacular snorer but no matter what they would have put here IÂd have gone off on it because it’s not W.A.S.P.
Fuck this shit, IÂm going to listen to some Go-GoÂs.
Get off my lawn, Miley! *shakes fist*