Miley Cyrus

I had never heard Miley Cyrus sing. I’d heard of her, and recall too clearly the agony of the summer that her father achieved his one and only achy breaky hit. Sadly, my almost total auditory ignorance of Ms. Cyrus / Montana is over. Off a link, I caught the spawn of Bill Ray in her role as guest mentor on American Idol.
First, it has to really suck to be given advice from a teenager; a product managed, exploited and marketed to tweens; to have to nod and smile while some vapid twit who’s only solo achievement is leaking some semi-nude photos and lining up to replace Lindsey Lohan as America’s favorite little skanque.
Second, the kid can’t sing. That’s a subjective assessment – strictly my opinion – but there it is. She sings through her nose, doesn’t breathe well, can’t hit the notes and engages in particularly odd stage moves more reminiscent of a mid-80’s hair metal band than some Disney pop child.
Still though, I felt sort of bad for her. Like those kids who get shipped off to Nick Bollittieri’s tennis camp at the age of 5, this little Cyrus invention seems destined to live out her Daddy’s failed aspirations.
So, I try to remember that underneath that dress…and the skin…and the ribs…and some other slippery bits…beats the heart of a child who was cravenly exploited by her father and who’s only sense of self comes from fan mail sent by tweens, none of whom understand the pain and emptiness that washes over her each and every time her nose finishes a song.
I try to keep that in mind as I slag, insult and mock this poor, talentless sprog.


One Response

  1. Yeah, but I can’t say for certain that I wouldn’t hit that.

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