Live Review: Miley Cyrus, Lolawolf, The Faders

Why did we get here early to see The Faders? The duo’s DJ set would’ve fit perfectly between Lolawolf and Cyrus’ sets – a dedicated set of party hits (Fancy, enough said) didn’t feel like a good enough reason to be inside the Arena before the sun went down.

Then it was time for Zoe Kravitz’ Lolawolf: a half-baked synth-pop band. There are moments of style (Kravitz can half-rap better than she can write lyrics), but even those moments feel like MIA without the MIA.

And then it’s time for Miley Cyrus. The question watching Cyrus isn’t ‘Why?’ It’s ‘Why not?’ Everything seems so strange – from brightly coloured animal suits to a giant inflatable dog to the hot dog on which Cyrus rides off into the night – but then this is Miley Fucking Cyrus and she does not give a fuck if you think her stage set-up is strange.

Yes, Cyrus’ stage persona is problematic; we all knew that coming in. But what’s important is that it’s engrossing. You can’t keep your eyes off her. When she sings covers, which yes, sent younger fans out in search of cigarettes and Miley T-shirts, it’s her voice that’s on display and it’s actually really impressive and hits all the right rock notes, but can also be sentimental and heart-wrenching: Buckley’s Lilac Wine, Parton’s Jolene, Zeppelin’s Baby, I’m Gonna Leave You, and on and on. 

But really what’s important is that we have young women like Cyrus negotiating and renegotiating their identities in a public space; often multiple times on the same stage (she embodies that fractured postmodern self: at once making fun of her Nashville heritage with My Darlin’; in party mode; complex and emotional; singing about her ex in an almost-ballgown; she’s everything all at once). She costume-changes with the best of them; she accepts fan’s offerings and wanders around holding bras and sunglasses and anything she can get her hands on, like a walking talking version of her own eclectic art.

It can’t be undersold that Cyrus is doing something that is a big deal: she’s moving away from the child star of yore and rediscovering herself and saying that it’s okay for teenage girls to experiment with who they are and to love and look after themselves (sexually, physically, emotionally all the –lys).

People complain that the show is pornographic when what’s really on display is a little bit of female masturbation; and can’t we all agree that that’s okay? The fact that that and a couple of leotards is a kind of radical womanhood says something more about us being conservative than something wrong with her. 

The encore is of course We Can’t Stop, followed by Wrecking Ball, the latter probably the best pop song to come out of 2013: it’s catchy, it’s fun, but it’s got a raw emotional core. It’s a lost-love song that also taps into that idea that adolescent and post-adolescent women are searching for an authentic self, and fuck you if you don’t like it.