miley cyrus

Miley Cyrus: The Last American Export Still Clearing Customs

By the time you read this, Miley Cyrus has already twerked, tongue-lolled, and power-balladed her way through another cultural checkpoint. Somewhere between Berlin’s Berghain and Bangkok’s rooftop infinity pools, the former Disney Channel tax write-off has become the global West’s most reliable soft-power delivery system—one glitter cannon at a time.

Let’s be clear: in an era when American influence abroad is mostly measured in either drone strikes or interest-rate hikes, Cyrus remains the rare payload that doesn’t require congressional approval. From São Paulo’s Carnival floats built in her likeness to Tokyo salary-karaoke renditions of “Flowers,” she is the karaoke-bar Rosetta Stone through which the planet deciphers what the United States thinks freedom looks like after three bourbons and a breakup.

The irony, of course, is that nobody asked for this. Cyrus began as a margin error in the great spreadsheet of geopolitics: a child star manufactured in the same Los Angeles laboratory that once produced Shirley Temple and the atomic bomb. Yet while Washington struggles to sell democracy in 280 characters or less, Cyrus has managed to franchise self-reinvention from Seoul to Lagos. Her 2023 single “Flowers” topped charts in 38 countries—coincidentally the same number where the U.S. State Department currently advises citizens to “reconsider travel.” Somewhere, an underpaid cultural attaché is updating the memo: drop the jazz-diplomat program, just air-drop a disco remix.

What makes the export uniquely potent is its packaging. Unlike the Marvel cinematic universe—whose explosions require no translation but whose plotlines demand a PhD in American fan service—Cyrus traffics in emotional shorthand: heartbreak, defiance, sequins. A Lebanese DJ can spin “Wrecking Ball” at a beach rave and nobody needs to know it was allegedly inspired by a Hemsworth. The wrecking ball itself is universal; the heart underneath is just another exportable raw material, like soybeans.

Meanwhile, the machinery of global capital has adapted accordingly. Spotify’s algorithmic overlords now map her mood swings against regional conflict cycles; streams of “Mother’s Daughter” spike 19 percent whenever a new abortion restriction drops in the American South, which is then dutifully reflected in curated playlists from Lagos to Lahore. Call it the free market of schadenfreude: we sell you our domestic dumpster fire, you dance to the arson report.

And yet, for all the triumphalism, there’s a darker punchline. The same week Cyrus collected her first Grammy, the Taliban banned women’s voices on Afghan airwaves. Somewhere in Kabul, a teenage girl risks 20 lashes for humming “The Climb” under her burqa—proof that even the most innocuous pop hook can be a subversive act when the stakes are high enough. The West cheers; the algorithm logs another micro-engagement. Everyone wins, except the girl with the bruised vocal cords.

Which brings us to the broader significance: Miley Cyrus is not just a singer but a stress-test for globalization’s attention span. Each costume change—from wholesome to wrecking-ball nude to sober Grammy couture—mirrors our collective inability to hold a narrative for more than 18 months without a reboot. We applaud her growth the same way we applaud a ceasefire that lasts until commercial break. The planet keeps spinning, the tongue keeps lolling, and somewhere a hedge-fund algorithm adjusts exposure to glitter futures.

In the end, the joke might be on us. While we export Cyrus as evidence of cultural vitality, the rest of the world quietly reverse-engineers her for parts: the vulnerability, the brand pivots, the survival instinct. China’s TikTok army studies her marketing cadence; Nigerian Gen-Z influencers copy her DGAF candor. We think we’re selling freedom; they’re buying the instruction manual.

So here’s to Miley, the last American product still clearing customs without a tariff code. Long may she twerk, may her wrecking ball keep swinging like a wrecking ball, and may we all be so lucky as to monetize our midlife crises before the planet finishes its own. Curtain closes, disco ball descends, and the export cycle begins anew—next stop, Mars colony karaoke night.