Miley Cyrus’s posturing reflects pop music’s attempts to be ‘real’

Early on in Harmony Korine’s much-hyped and frankly game-changing film, “Spring Breakers,” the line between reality and fantasy becomes blurred in a way that’s only possible in today’s landscape.

“Pretend you’re in a video game or something,” one of the film’s ex-Disney heroines declares.

Like in-game footage of Grand Theft Auto V, the scene blooms into absolute anarchy as the band of party-driven spring breakers mimic every rap song cliche in existence and violently rob a chicken restaurant.

Korine’s commentary stings in regard to this generation of “parenting by way of television,” and it’s haunting. 

His points make sense when the music world’s recent chart-toppers are considered. Somewhere in between the happy-go-lucky days of Vampire Weekend’s “Oxford Comma” and Kanye’s manic-depressive anthem, “Hold My Liquor,” outright happiness became a wildly foreign concept.

Pop culture evolves in this way, too. Generations mold themselves around their pop stars and for the first time, the faults of alleged pop culture gods — Yeezus, anyone? — are out in the open. This culture of blurred lines between public and private lives creates a void for celebrities such as Amanda Bynes, whose Twitter hijinks exemplify the concept of an off-the-rails teen star as she decides openly whether or not she wants to have sex with Drake. These outward displays offer a new framework in understanding the definition of celebrity. 

And this new definition makes it a lot more difficult to separate reality from fantasy, and a lot more problematic to simply fake it.

The indie music and hip-hop worlds have long been obsessed with the idea of authenticity, and the only difference now is that largely marketable music has caught on.

The Internet, or the new epicenter of just about any social argument, is an obvious culprit for this emphasis on authenticity. A less-obvious cause of the shift, though, is the importance of mass-produced music. Gone are the days when a chart-topper simply needed a catchy hook and a pretty face to sing it. Music-nerdom has crept into popular culture, bringing an entirely new set of rules for commercial viability. 

Britney Spears didn’t need to be real during her catapult to success because she was a product of corporate sponsors itching for the under-18 demographic. Reality shows such as “Making the Band” were predicated on the idea that music could be manufactured with a specific formula.

However, the recent commercial success of independent artists rooted in their relatable existences has created a new standard of success that necessitates, at the very least, the acknowledgement of a dark side. Consider for a moment that Odd Future’s ringleader is also the head of a creative agency with the goal of targeting young people. The game has changed and the powers that be are well-aware.

With that added weight — the expectation of anything more than escapism-pop culture by virtue of its often unstable arbiters has been given entirely new context.

Take Miley Cyrus’ raucously controversial single, “We Can’t Stop.” Setting aside for a moment the racial implications of a white former Disney star reappropriating black culture for the sake of ruffling feathers, the song is absolutely haunting. 

For 3 1/2 minutes, Hannah Montana gives the antithesis of a D.A.R.E presentation, trivializing excessive drug use in a way that falls short of clever and lands on morbid. She’s trying, and that’s what’s so sad about it.

In a vain attempt at an uplifting youth anthem, the song’s refrain mimics pop verses of the past. 

“It’s our party, we can do what we want / It’s our party, we can say what we want / It’s our party, we can love who we want / We can kiss who we want / We can see who we want,” Ostensible partygoers whisper on the song’s bridge.

What’s different here, and what seems to have the entire world in a fit, is Cyrus’ attempt at capturing reality. “And everyone in line in the bathroom / Trying to get a line in the bathroom,” the former Disney star croons.

Miley’s nod at drug culture — or her more problematic nod at what she wrongfully has gathered as black culture — is a calculated response to a desire for reality.

The problems arise when that reality is manufactured, as it so often is. Korine’s “Spring Breakers” lives in an MTV universe where the sight of cocaine in the bathroom is to be expected and “getting turned up” as Cyrus so eloquently puts it, is the norm. And if the prevalence of darkly poppy songs such as this proves anything, it’s that we really can’t stop.