Miley Cyrus' BANGERZ tour rolled into Toronto last night, less like a wrecking ball than a d-lysergic call to arms, replete with dancers of all shapes and sizes, including a little person and veritable giant, a gold-plated, cash-spewing car, her famed space kitten, an arena-high inflatable dog, an orgy-sized bed, furries, laser baby, a massive muppet, Abraham Lincoln, cowboy costumes, animation by Ren & Stimpy creator John Kricfalusi, a seven-piece band, giant bobble-headed rappers, countless barely-there bodysuits and a cover of "Jolene" that would make her godmother Dolly Parton pretty proud.
As someone who has covered music since Britney Spears made everyone freak out with her own barely dressed Rolling Stone cover in 1998, North Americans being aghast at a young female pop star is nothing new. But there's something a little different about the Miley mess. Why are we talking about her so much? Obviously, she's quite talented and incredibly charismatic -- neither of which would be revelations to her legions of Hanna Montana-raised fans but are to those who still think of her as that "Achy Breaky" guy's daughter. But the real reason goes further back. Like, way further back.