When Spotify invites me to Paris for Billions Club Live, their ultra-exclusive celebration of artists whose songs have crossed the one-billion-stream mark, I say yes… immediately. I didn’t totally know what it was, but I do know it involves Miley Cyrus performing inside Maxim’s—the storied Parisian supper club that’s seen A-listers from Édith Piaf to Naomi Campbell.
I’m the lone man in a curated crew of editors, presenters, and content creators—aside from the two charming Spotify reps, Rik and Adam. Somewhere between arrivals and Côtes de Provence rosé, it becomes abundantly clear I’m the only person in the group who doesn’t consider Miley a formative life event.
At our rooftop welcome dinner, emotions are already surfacing. Billboard’s deputy editor Lyndsey Havens says the overseas flight was a no-brainer: “I’d do anything to see Miley.” Alina Khani, a comedian from Berlin, literally tears up when an Ibiza beach club-style remix of “Flowers” plays over the speakers. “She’s just… everything,” she whispers to no one in particular. Olivia Jade from American Vogue, entirely deadpan, says, “I’m walking down the aisle to ‘Adore You’ in a few weeks.”
I, meanwhile, sheepishly reveal that my Miley knowledge peaks at “Party in the USA.” The group gently informs me that “Party” won’t be performed due to it requiring, as someone puts it, “her highest vocal nodules.” Also, it was written by none other than Jessie J. “Of course a British woman wrote that,” someone else murmurs.
The next afternoon, we set off for the show at Maxim’s. The venue is steeped in cultural mythology—the kind of place where Belle Époque opulence collides with disco-era fantasy: mirrors, chandeliers, velvet on velvet. I attended a ball here last year during Paris Fashion Week, and somehow, tonight still manages to feel like the chicest moment yet.
Upstairs the superfans are already in full swing—posing in the photo booth, sipping champagne, casually weeping to Miley’s discography on loop. I spot Lorian de Sousa, creator of @OutOfContextHannahMontana, glowing under interview lights. “I’ve been a fan of Miley since I was six years old,” he says. “Not everyone gets to grow up alongside their favorite artist, but I did. Her music was there when I couldn’t find the words for what I was feeling. She’s like a big sister.”
Nearby, Nach—the mind behind @MileyNation13— clutches a bouquet and a handwritten note. “Plastic Hearts was so good for me,” he says, eyes wide. “But also Can’t Be Tamed, Bangerz, Dead Petz. Every era.” It’s around then that I realize: this isn’t just fandom. This is a generation that has built itself around a pop star who shapeshifts in public and refuses to be neat about it.
As fans debate Miley vs. Hannah Montana, BBC Radio 1’s Jodie Bryant puts it best: “Miley is Hannah. They are one. Miley became who she is because of Hannah, and she says that herself. We love them both. We love her.” Jade, from Reims, is more direct: “Hannah’s soft and gentle, but Miley’s the real deal. So definitely Miley.”
Then comes the main event. We’re escorted into the downstairs ballroom, and things instantly devolve, in the best possible way. The room pulses with anticipation. The walls are literally sweating. Elbows fly. Drinks spill. Girls in custom tees surge forward. It’s the most high-glamour mosh pit I’ve ever seen. And then, she emerges. Wearing an archival Mugler bustier dress from the 1992 “Ritz” collection—turquoise crystals, corset by Mr. Pearl.Miley launches into a jazzy rendition of “Flowers,” and the crowd detonates.
Everything melts into pure, glittering joy. She moves through a tight, emotional setlist: “Used to Be Young,” “Slide Away,” “Wrecking Ball,” “Angels Like You.” But what stops the room is a surprise mashup of “The Climb” and “We Can’t Stop.” Before “Nothing Breaks Like a Heart,” she pauses. “Without each of you, the billions wouldn’t even exist,” she says. “That’s how important you are to my success, my confidence. Everything I’ve achieved. I’ve never been too into numbers. Math comes from the mind. Real beauty? That’s from the heart.”
Half an hour and one dramatic outfit change later, she returns. This time: Mugler Fall 1996, a jeweled corset and black faux-cul jacket, like a sci-fi Art Deco Amazonian general. The energy somehow gets louder. Somewhere between the ghostly glow of “End of the World” and my own spiritual unraveling, I start singing. First under my breath. Then louder. By the final chorus, I am one of them—sweaty, shouting, euphoric. We stumble out dazed and overstimulated. The only remedy: a 1 a.m. meal at Au Pied de Cochon, where we order oysters, trotters, steaks (lobster, for me) like its prescription-strength.
On the Eurostar home the next afternoon, dehydrated and blinking through a hangover from bottles of Saint-Véran, I queue up a Miley Cyrus playlist. Not just the hits but the deep cuts too. I may not have flown across the ocean like Lyndsey. I may not be getting married like Olivia. But I get it now. She is the best of both worlds.