Miley Cyrus Younger Siblings Humiliated During Bangerz
Miley Cyrus was just 13 years old when she first found fame as a squeaky clean Disney Channel star in the hit series Hannah Montana, which aired until 2009.
But by the time she turned 20, Miley was seemingly keen to rebrand herself by establishing a very different kind of public persona through her now-infamous Bangerz era.
If you need reminding, she released her self-described 'dirty south hip-hop' album Bangerz in 2013, and with it came a brand new Miley.
The star boldly cut off all her hair, sang about recreational drug use, and became especially renowned for how provocative she was — which included twerking on Robin Thicke at the VMAs, and appearing nude in her 'Wrecking Ball' music video.
As a result, for better or for worse, Miley became a bit of a pop culture icon during this era, and was regularly in the news cycle for her outlandish antics.
Now 32, Miley has admitted that her family struggled with her raunchy rebrand at the time, and even revealed that her younger siblings didn't want to go to school because of how humiliating it was to be related to her.
For reference, Miley has three older half-siblings, Brandi, Trace, and Christopher, and two younger siblings, 31-year-old Braison, and 25-year-old Noah.
During her recent appearance on the Reclaiming with Monica Lewinsky podcast, Miley referenced Monica and then-president Bill Clinton's 1998 sex scandal as she said: 'My 2013 is your 1998, because that was the time where I just got hit so hard and I was so embarrassed.'
'There was even a time where my brother and sister didn't want to go to school because of how humiliated they were to be related to me,' she recalled. 'My brother, at one point, he was saying: 'I don't judge you, but you could understand how hard it is for me to go to school and you be my sister?''
'It was really hard for me in 2013, and I Iost everything during that time in my personal life because of the choices I was making professionally,' Miley went on. 'If I kept dressing or acting a certain way, my relationships fell apart. No one wanted to date me because they didn't want to be with a woman [whose] sexual expression was not for them, it was shared with the world.'
'Guys, when I would try to date, when I was dating, or I was engaged at the time, that didn't work out because I was sharing a part of myself that men wanted to be saved for them only,' she continued. 'And the fact that I would pose nude or dance in very little clothes or show my body was making them feel like I was taking something away that was meant to be for them, so I would have a really hard time dating.'
'It was really hard for me to go home and see my dad and, like, look him in the eyes and not feel super embarrassed,' Miley then confessed. 'Same thing, my grandmother is my best friend, she's dead, but she's still my best friend, and I was like: 'This is gonna kill her.''
'Going home and seeing my grandparents was just mortifying,' she reiterated, adding that until she had therapy, she 'had a lot of guilt about how hard it would have been to be my sibling or my parents, and how embarrassing.'
What do you make of Miley's latest comments? Let me know down below!
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Yahoo
an hour ago
- Yahoo
Two Paths for the Pop Star
The Atlantic Daily, a newsletter that guides you through the biggest stories of the day, helps you discover new ideas, and recommends the best in culture. Sign up for it here. When Miley Cyrus previewed her new album, Something Beautiful, for people in her orbit, they gave her funny feedback: The music was too good. Or at least, they allegedly said, it was too good to be pop. Cyrus exasperatedly relayed this story to Apple Music's Zane Lowe last month. She then listed off 'pop' musicians who were definitely good: David Bowie, Madonna, Stevie Nicks. 'Pop really gets given a bad name of, like you know, manufactured label creations,' she said. 'And that's just not what it is. That's generic, and to be honest, it's lazy.' To which parts of the stan internet cheered: Preach! Put 'Wrecking Ball' in the Louvre! Cyrus's unnamed critics seemed to view pop, like a lot of people do, as a disposable commodity. But Cyrus was articulating the—to use an ever-contested term—poptimist viewpoint, which says that just because music functions as a product for the masses doesn't mean it can't also be excellent. Now that I've heard Something Beautiful, Cyrus's ninth album, I'm starting to reconsider—and sympathize with—the feedback she received. Her new music is, and I use quotation marks advisedly here, too 'good.' It's laden with signifiers of quality that undermine the very point of the genre she's working in: pleasure. The definition of good is subjective, but society generally agrees it involves a few attributes. 'Good' things result from effort and resources being deployed in ways that prize discernment over easy gratification. Think about a plate of subtly balanced pasta (which might be yummier with a shaving of parmesan cheese) or a designer handbag (visually indistinguishable from a knockoff). But that kind of good is hard to achieve, and people who aim for it often conflate sophistication with excess (forget parmesan; add truffles). Which is how Cyrus ended up with an album that's so lavishly produced, it numbs your ears. A 32-year-old former child actor who's been making hits since 2007, Cyrus has never needed much adornment to be entertaining. She has a voice that's raspy and ferocious like a lovable cartoon creature's, and a happy-go-lucky personality to match. No particular style defines her—her albums have made a point of flitting among genres including trap, country, and hard rock—nor has she ever been a songwriter of great depth. But she's repeatedly imbued formulaic fare with a sense of geysering, authentic humanity. Now she's aiming for prestige. Winning her first ever Grammys last year—for the hit 'Flowers'—sparked an epiphany: 'I never admitted to myself how much it hurt to not be recognized for my work,' she told The New York Times. Something Beautiful sounds like it resulted from a plan to win more recognition. It features contributions from many critically acclaimed indie musicians, such as Brittany Howard from Alabama Shakes and Adam Granduciel from the War on Drugs. It's been marketed as an opus in the vein of Pink Floyd's The Wall; it will, Cyrus has said, 'medicate somewhat of a sick culture through music.' [Read: The freakish powers of Miley Cyrus and Lana Del Rey] If this is medicine, it's certainly pungent. The album is piled high with pulsating orchestration (think Philip Glass more than Gustav Mahler), progressive-rock guitar noodling, and multitrack disco harmonies, all echoing with heavenly reverb. Much of this detail work is indeed something beautiful, like fine gold threading on a gown. Some of it is even outstanding, such as the layered gospel vocals of 'Reborn.' But again and again, the listener is left wondering why a song has become overtaken by a swarm of instruments buzzing and zipping like bees. The cumulative effect of so much sound is a sense of sheer heaviness. Cyrus and her collaborators are writing in the Diane Warren mode, as if to soundtrack one last makeout before asteroids pummel the Earth. Many of the melodies are sturdy, and you might find yourself verklempt at the epic heartache of 'More to Lose' and 'Golden Burning Sun.' But the singing—while impassioned and textured—isn't really interacting with the instrumentation in a dynamic way. And the music's ambitious veneer invites a kind of scrutiny that her lyrics can't sustain (one mangled metaphor: 'My tears are streamin' like our favorite show tonight'). The listener might be impressed, even awed, by Cyrus's effort—but deep down, they'll know there's something better they could be listening to. All I've wanted to do lately is listen to Addison Rae. This is a surprise for a few reasons. One is that Rae, 24, is a TikTok dancer who became famous six years ago for doing bodyrolls in sweatpants while smiling blankly at the camera. She then released a fun but generic EP that reused one old Lady Gaga demo and imitated the pop-punk-inflected sound of Millennial child actors turned singers: Selena Gomez, Demi Lovato, early Cyrus. This did not suggest anything very exciting about what kind of culture would result from short-form video becoming our primary star-making machine. But Rae's debut album, Addison, out this past Friday, isn't bland at all. In fact, I really didn't expect that the first great TikTok-to-pop album would evoke Aphex Twin and other electronic experimentalists such as Timbaland, Björk, and Portishead. The production's breakbeats, digital glitches, and creaking synthesizers summon an alien landscape for Rae, an avatar of popular-girl normalcy, to explore. The sound is on trend with Gen Z's '90s and Y2K nostalgia—pining for a time when technology seemed exciting rather than oppressive—and it calls back to Madonna's run of playful futurism from 1992's Erotica to 2005's Confessions on the Dance Floor. But it's pulled off in an ingenious way that conveys youthful possibility and delivers some really fresh bangers. Rae's prime collaborators are Elvira Anderfjärd and Luka Kloser, two relatively unknown women working in a field—pop production—that's largely dominated by men whose tricks are starting to become all too familiar. The duo trained under the super-producer Max Martin, whose notion of 'melodic math' insists that every note serves the purpose of catchiness. But Addison's melodies, while effective, don't quite deliver quite as much a sugar rush. The album's real appeal lies in harmony and rhythm: the interplay of melancholic organ lines, curiously lopsided bass grooves, vocals stacked in tangy intervals, and key changes that seem to reverse the flow of time. These songs aren't exactly avant garde, but they were clearly made with the understanding of how strangeness can invite replayability. As for Rae, she mostly retains the simple allure that defined her social-media stardom, mixing angelic breathiness with kitschy squeals and spoken word. Her best lyrics reframe clichés about being hot and having fun, like when she distills a night on the dance floor into four words: 'Kick drum, chew gum.' But generally, the more you notice what she's saying, the worse the music gets; a mention of her parents' divorce in 'Headphones' adds a hard surface to a song that's otherwise transcendently soupy. Thankfully, such stabs at profundity are rare. Rae seems happy to blend in, employing herself as an ingredient in a greater whole. Being an ingredient might seem like a bad thing, but it's refreshing these days. Pop stars are taken very seriously of late—in part because the internet gives their fans a loud platform to champion them, and in part because pop is, well, really getting more serious. Inspired by figures such as Beyoncé and Taylor Swift, Gen Z's emerging icons—Chappell Roan and Billie Eilish among them—position themselves as complex, uncompromising auteurs. When that approach works, it's as thrilling as can be. When it doesn't, you get the ponderousness of Cyrus's new album. Rae is throwing back to a time when pop didn't insist on its own importance quite so much, and in doing so, she's drawing attention to the craftsmanship that chasing a hit requires. Her mesmerizing music videos flaunt both her dancing abilities and her aesthetic tastes, the latter of which seem as finely developed as a fashion editor's. But the most important audiovisual accompaniments to this album are the clips she, Anderfjärd, and Kloser posted from their time in the studio. Messing around with keyboards and humming top lines, these three women seem to have developed a strong creative flow together. The only statement that this album is making is in execution: Good pop is good music. *Illustration by Akshita Chandra / The Atlantic. Sources: James Devaney / GC Images / Getty; Aeon / GC Images / Getty; XNY / Star Max / GC Images / Getty; Emma McIntyre / Getty; Jemal Countess / Getty; XNY / Star Max / GC Images / Getty; Kevin Winter / Getty; Bryan Bedder / Getty; Cristina Gaidau / Getty. Article originally published at The Atlantic
Buzz Feed
an hour ago
- Buzz Feed
JoJo Siwa Reacts To Miley Cyrus Joke About Her
Some people may have found Miley Cyrus's JoJo Siwa joke funny — but JoJo herself wasn't laughing. If you missed it, it happened last weekend at a World Pride event, which Miley notably kicked off by popping out of a closet. "Oh my God, I haven't been in there since sixth grade!" she joked in a now-viral video shared online. Miley, who came out as pansexual in 2015, continued, saying, "Enjoy coming out of the closet if this Pride is the time for you. It shouldn't be a month — it should be a year, it should be infinite." She then turned to leave but not before making a playful jab at JoJo, who previously identified as a lesbian but now identifies as queer. "All right, I'm going back inside to get more pretzels and find JoJo Siwa and bring her back out," Miley teased as the crowd laughed. JoJo responded to the joke today on Instagram, expressing disappointment, especially as a "day 1" Miley fan. "I was happy at my 5th birthday having a Miley themed party," she wrote over photos highlighting her love for Miley, including one from the party, "and I'm still happy now at 22… If you know me, you know that miley is my day 1, grew up beyond inspired by her from 2 years old on… I wasn't sure how I felt about things for a couple of days… but I've started to come to some thoughts…." JoJo said that while she wasn't a fan of Miley's joke, she doesn't believe she meant harm. "I don't believe what Miley said at world pride was ill intended, honestly I think it was meant to be a joke," she said, "but just not very good one haha. Not what the world, or myself needs to hear anyday of the week." JoJo, who recently went public with her Celebrity Big Brother UK co-star Chris Hughes, also said she wound up messaging Miley directly about it. "I messaged miley light heartedly about it and she replied and said 'All love. Always . ❤️❤️❤️.'🤍 JoJo then addressed fans who might find themselves in a similar situation, writing, "Honestly the most beautiful thing I've learned in the last 5 years is that love is a gorgeous rainbow. Don't question yourself, don't second guess yourself, just love. Love love love love love.❤️ People judge no matter what, and it can be very hard, especially when it comes from someone you love, and look up to… but if you feel happy and content with yourself, that's most important. You get one life… hold onto it, make it yours, find your happy, and love.🤍" You can see her full post here, and then let me know what you make of it in the comments.
Atlantic
3 hours ago
- Atlantic
Miley Cyrus, Addison Rae, and the Point of Pop Music
When Miley Cyrus previewed her new album, Something Beautiful, for people in her orbit, they gave her funny feedback: The music was too good. Or at least, they allegedly said, it was too good to be pop. Cyrus exasperatedly relayed this story to Apple Music's Zane Lowe last month. She then listed off 'pop' musicians who were definitely good: David Bowie, Madonna, Stevie Nicks. 'Pop really gets given a bad name of, like you know, manufactured label creations,' she said. 'And that's just not what it is. That's generic, and to be honest, it's lazy.' To which parts of the stan internet cheered: Preach! Put 'Wrecking Ball' in the Louvre! Cyrus's unnamed critics seemed to view pop, like a lot of people do, as a disposable commodity. But Cyrus was articulating the—to use an ever-contested term— poptimist viewpoint, which says that just because music functions as a product for the masses doesn't mean it can't also be excellent. Now that I've heard Something Beautiful, Cyrus's ninth album, I'm starting to reconsider—and sympathize with—the feedback she received. Her new music is, and I use quotation marks advisedly here, too 'good.' It's laden with signifiers of quality that undermine the very point of the genre she's working in: pleasure. The definition of good is subjective, but society generally agrees it involves a few attributes. 'Good' things result from effort and resources being deployed in ways that prize discernment over easy gratification. Think about a plate of subtly balanced pasta (which might be yummier with a shaving of parmesan cheese) or a designer handbag (visually indistinguishable from a knockoff). But that kind of good is hard to achieve, and people who aim for it often conflate sophistication with excess (forget parmesan; add truffles). Which is how Cyrus ended up with an album that's so lavishly produced, it numbs your ears. A 32-year-old former child actor who's been making hits since 2007, Cyrus has never needed much adornment to be entertaining. She has a voice that's raspy and ferocious like a lovable cartoon creature's, and a happy-go-lucky personality to match. No particular style defines her—her albums have made a point of flitting among genres including trap, country, and hard rock —nor has she ever been a songwriter of great depth. But she's repeatedly imbued formulaic fare with a sense of geysering, authentic humanity. Now she's aiming for prestige. Winning her first ever Grammys last year—for the hit 'Flowers'—sparked an epiphany: 'I never admitted to myself how much it hurt to not be recognized for my work,' she told The New York Times. Something Beautiful sounds like it resulted from a plan to win more recognition. It features contributions from many critically acclaimed indie musicians, such as Brittany Howard from Alabama Shakes and Adam Granduciel from the War on Drugs. It's been marketed as an opus in the vein of Pink Floyd's The Wall; it will, Cyrus has said, 'medicate somewhat of a sick culture through music.' If this is medicine, it's certainly pungent. The album is piled high with pulsating orchestration (think Philip Glass more than Gustav Mahler), progressive-rock guitar noodling, and multitrack disco harmonies, all echoing with heavenly reverb. Much of this detail work is indeed something beautiful, like fine gold threading on a gown. Some of it is even outstanding, such as the layered gospel vocals of 'Reborn.' But again and again, the listener is left wondering why a song has become overtaken by a swarm of instruments buzzing and zipping like bees. The cumulative effect of so much sound is a sense of sheer heaviness. Cyrus and her collaborators are writing in the Diane Warren mode, as if to soundtrack one last makeout before asteroids pummel the Earth. Many of the melodies are sturdy, and you might find yourself verklempt at the epic heartache of 'More to Lose' and 'Golden Burning Sun.' But the singing—while impassioned and textured—isn't really interacting with the instrumentation in a dynamic way. And the music's ambitious veneer invites a kind of scrutiny that her lyrics can't sustain (one mangled metaphor: 'My tears are streamin' like our favorite show tonight'). The listener might be impressed, even awed, by Cyrus's effort—but deep down, they'll know there's something better they could be listening to. All I've wanted to do lately is listen to Addison Rae. This is a surprise for a few reasons. One is that Rae, 24, is a TikTok dancer who became famous six years ago for doing bodyrolls in sweatpants while smiling blankly at the camera. She then released a fun but generic EP that reused one old Lady Gaga demo and imitated the pop-punk-inflected sound of Millennial child actors turned singers: Selena Gomez, Demi Lovato, early Cyrus. This did not suggest anything very exciting about what kind of culture would result from short-form video becoming our primary star-making machine. But Rae's debut album, Addison, out this past Friday, isn't bland at all. In fact, I really didn't expect that the first great TikTok-to-pop album would evoke Aphex Twin and other electronic experimentalists such as Timbaland, Björk, and Portishead. The production's breakbeats, digital glitches, and creaking synthesizers summon an alien landscape for Rae, an avatar of popular-girl normalcy, to explore. The sound is on trend with Gen Z's '90s and Y2K nostalgia —pining for a time when technology seemed exciting rather than oppressive—and it calls back to Madonna's run of playful futurism from 1992's Erotica to 2005's Confessions on the Dance Floor. But it's pulled off in an ingenious way that conveys youthful possibility and delivers some really fresh bangers. Rae's prime collaborators are Elvira Anderfjärd and Luka Kloser, two relatively unknown women working in a field—pop production—that's largely dominated by men whose tricks are starting to become all too familiar. The duo trained under the super-producer Max Martin, whose notion of 'melodic math' insists that every note serves the purpose of catchiness. But Addison 's melodies, while effective, don't quite deliver quite as much a sugar rush. The album's real appeal lies in harmony and rhythm: the interplay of melancholic organ lines, curiously lopsided bass grooves, vocals stacked in tangy intervals, and key changes that seem to reverse the flow of time. These songs aren't exactly avant garde, but they were clearly made with the understanding of how strangeness can invite replayability. As for Rae, she mostly retains the simple allure that defined her social-media stardom, mixing angelic breathiness with kitschy squeals and spoken word. Her best lyrics reframe clichés about being hot and having fun, like when she distills a night on the dance floor into four words: 'Kick drum, chew gum.' But generally, the more you notice what she's saying, the worse the music gets; a mention of her parents' divorce in 'Headphones' adds a hard surface to a song that's otherwise transcendently soupy. Thankfully, such stabs at profundity are rare. Rae seems happy to blend in, employing herself as an ingredient in a greater whole. Being an ingredient might seem like a bad thing, but it's refreshing these days. Pop stars are taken very seriously of late—in part because the internet gives their fans a loud platform to champion them, and in part because pop is, well, really getting more serious. Inspired by figures such as Beyoncé and Taylor Swift, Gen Z's emerging icons— Chappell Roan and Billie Eilish among them—position themselves as complex, uncompromising auteurs. When that approach works, it's as thrilling as can be. When it doesn't, you get the ponderousness of Cyrus's new album. Rae is throwing back to a time when pop didn't insist on its own importance quite so much, and in doing so, she's drawing attention to the craftsmanship that chasing a hit requires. Her mesmerizing music videos flaunt both her dancing abilities and her aesthetic tastes, the latter of which seem as finely developed as a fashion editor's. But the most important audiovisual accompaniments to this album are the clips she, Anderfjärd, and Kloser posted from their time in the studio. Messing around with keyboards and humming top lines, these three women seem to have developed a strong creative flow together. The only statement that this album is making is in execution: Good pop is good music.
