Miley’s Californication Is Complete

Miley Cyrus spent the last decade on the run from her own perception, shape-shifting her way in and out of fantastic achievements and exacting dilemmas, going to great lengths to express that she knew how to party in the years when everyone had her pegged as the squeaky-clean Disney kid; and then, when that posturing started to rub people the wrong way, diving into a psychedelic rabbit hole with the Flaming Lips. Ever eager to prove to us how delightfully weird or reassuringly trad she is from one era to the next, she felt calculated and hard to pin down, musically, which perfectly suited a pop career full of surprises but also rose suspicions about her intentions as a visitor in the far-reaching subgenres her albums wandered through. A good bit of that drift is perfectly germane to sticking a microphone in anyone’s face at various points in their 20s and teens, years where we figure ourselves out one mistake at a time.