"Stop telling me I'm a part of this big machine/I'm breaking free," hollers Cyrus on "Robot", by which point it's hard to know whether to laugh or cry at such self-parodic chutzpah. Few albums have sounded less creatively liberated than the 17-year-old's third, a queasy mix of sexual bravado and butter-wouldn't-melt wholesomeness, thumping dance-pop and tweenie-calibrated balladry. There's something almost dystopian about music this ruthlessly generic; after all, when your best track feeds off Ke$ha for inspiration, haven't you reached the end of the pop production line?