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The aesthetics of the Billboard performance plainly mirrored the video for Cyrus’s new single, “Malibu,” which she released earlier this month.

It was filmed along the central California coast, and in it Cyrus wears all white, pets a dog, runs with balloons, and flashes her gold engagement ring.

She wore her hair long, blond, and artfully tousled. She stood close to the microphone, her hands gripping the stand.

Cyrus herself has been through this before: she was the star of “Hannah Montana,” a wholesome television series on the Disney Channel, long before she was miming a cornucopia of sex acts onstage with Robin Thicke.

Most everybody readily acknowledges the artifice inherent to pop music—as consumers, we know and understand, to some degree, that the whole business is and always has been an aggressively managed charade.

Part of the deal is that we still feign chagrin or incredulity (or both) when a pop star announces another reinvention.

“I never would’ve believed you if, three years ago, you told me I’d be here writing this song,” she sings.

The whole good-girl routine would feel like a sendup—a comment on the pliability of persona, or on pop costuming, both literal and figurative, or on our racially polarized political climate—if that kind of commentary were Cyrus’s thing.

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