Miley Cyrus’ Slide Away, and the surprisingly empowering art of the breakup song

Like the turbulent waters she sings of, Miley Cyrus’s latest single Slide Away ends with a repeated lyric, which ebbs and flows like swirling tides. “Move on we’re not 17, I’m not who I used to be,” Cyrus croons over and over, as the song spirals into a whirlpool of nastiness. The track, which—presumably—dismantles her ten-year relationship with Liam Hemsworth, is casually cruel in its closing. Cyrus’s final lines are blunt and unforgiving, as she urges sandy-haired-surfer Hemsworth to ‘slide away back to the ocean la la la’. 

It’s a clumsy metaphor for a clumsy song—one which initially did not sit well with me. To shrug off ten years with the blunt dismissal “move on” seems lazy and hard-hearted. I pitied the apparently immature, stuck-in-his-ways Liam. I imagined him brooding somewhere in a forest, angrily cutting down trees, whilst Miley has the time of her life on an Italian yacht, kissing reality TV stars. “Miley Cyrus’s new song is un-catchy and a bit harsh,” I broached on a group chat. “You’re mad,” came the first reply, “I think it’s so profound.”

Forced to explain myself, I reasoned that what irked me was the inequity of it all. As an actor, Hemsworth’s only means of responding to their separation was to post a deeply bland sunset pic on Instagram, with a suitably dry and non-committal caption wishing Cyrus health and happiness going forward. Meanwhile, as a popstar who made her name for her inability to be tamed, Cyrus was able to channel their divorce into lucrative, one-sided art.

But maybe I had misjudged Slide Away. Certainly, Miley’s live performance of the track at the VMAs last week unearthed a pain the studio version does not convey. Alone, except for a string orchestra, Miley stood centre stage, hair wet, her voice hovering somewhere between guttural and dulcet. I preferred this version, I decided. This was something I could get behind, it felt more raw and meaningful. But, why should I want Miley Cyrus to suffer in the first place? Why do I recoil at the fact that she has not expressed due pain at her divorce? Why is it a problem that this highly successful, talented, ambitious, 26-year-old has outgrown her childhood sweetheart Liam Hemsworth (who, whilst seeming entirely nice and entirely physically perfect, reminds me a lot of Aidan from Sex and the City: uninteresting and unchallenging)?

I conceded. Whilst Slide Away is still not catchy, there is more to it than meets the eye. Culturally, breakup songs occupy a curious and important space. When they are good, they can be empowering, apologetic, meditative, wallowing, hopeful. For the singer, they are cathartic opportunities for closure; grievances can be aired, sins can be atoned for. For the listener, they are exercises in comfort, as artists give words to emotions we cannot articulate ourselves. They are, also, increasingly entrenched in the feminine. Whilst there have been legions of male-penned breakup songs in the past (from Kanye West’s astounded diatribe Heartless, to Leonard Cohen’s mournful attempt at comfort Hey, That’s No Way To Say Goodbye), the recent spate of female-led breakup anthems is both undeniable and intriguing.

In a world where women are too often dismissed as overly-hysterical and overly-emotional, there is a certain satisfaction in listening to female-singers boldly revel in their heartbreak, entirely unafraid of judgement. Whether it is Beyoncé asserting her romantic dominance with a vicious thud in Irreplaceable, or Lana Del Rey entitling herself to sadness in Dark Paradise, women have reclaimed and reworked the breakup song, shrugging in the face of a censorious society. The songs are therefore defiant displays of emotion, they are also very often, objectively, excellent. 

For me, the peak of the breakup song arrived in the form of Ariana Grande’s thank u, next last autumn. Released just weeks after her high-profile split from fiancé Pete Davidson, Grande defied expectations of pettiness by creating a track that was glorifying and gracious in equal measure. She manages to give her exes agency, crediting and thanking them with the virtues they taught her, yet all the while she maintains the upper-hand, reassuring the listener that in breaking-up she has bettered herself. The result is a zippy self-love anthem, one which represents the culmination of years of female artistic heartbreak. thank u, next could not have existed without the relentless empowerment of Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive, the mature self-acknowledgement of Fergie’s Big Girls Don’t Cry, the bleary-eyed resilience of Adele’s Someone Like You, or even the melancholy acceptance of Bonnie Raitt’s I Can’t Make You Love Me. Grande’s masterpiece was all of these songs and more, condensed into a slick three minutes and twenty-eight seconds, and sung by a barely-five-foot-tall pop-wunderkind. 

Done well, breakup songs are a unifying source of female power. And—in the sacred words of Ariana —for that I’ll say, thank u, next.