When Miley Cyrus first started to saturate the national consciousness by way of Hannah Montana, I wanted to hate her, I really did. When I saw the grotesquely tacky Hannah Montana DVDs filling up entire walls at Blockbuster, I would shudder and say something like, “remember when kids’ TV used to be good?” I couldn’t stand the psuedo-rockstar clothing that she was sporting or her fakefakefake blonde wig or the fact that her name was Hannah Montana. At that point I had never heard the name Miley Cyrus and I had never heard her sing or watched her on TV. All I knew was that little girls all over the world basically thought that she was the second coming of Jesus and it kind of scared me. It was actually kind of easy to hate her.
That is until I heard this album. It’s no secret that I have incredibly questionable taste in music. I bought (as in SPENT MONEY) on Hilary Duff’s albums, if that says anything at all about the kind of music I sometimes enjoy. I was no match for Miley’s scientifically-designed-to-be-infectious teen-bop tunes. It’s the kind of music that makes me want to have pillow fights and jump up and down on my bed while singing into a hairbrush and making smores. I couldn’t help but try to convert all of my friends to Miley-dom at any opportunity I got. “You have to listen to this!” I would beg. “It’s really not that bad, really!”
