You don’t understand Miley Cyrus and that’s fine. I’m with you. She’s reached early Prince-like intrigue for me, where I’ve started to wonder if maybe she’s not even from our world. She’s like the personification of a Hella song, just total precision and total oddball at the same time.
Just when you think you know what’s coming next—and she made it easy with that brief fascination with her own tongue—she attacks your eyes with colorful weird, the likes of which you can’t recall seeing before. So here she is with a few covers for Plastik Magazine and I’m ready for her to open up an art gallery. I’m in. I don’t know what the hell is happening, but she’s naked, wearing ice cream, sucking plastic, eating sandwiches in a melting room with what may be the lead singer of The Flaming Lips, and I’m totally, unequivocally in.
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