certain thing

For about two months when she was a kid, Jessie Murph wanted to go to Harvard.

“I watched ‘Legally Blonde,’ and I was like, ‘This is lit,’” the 20-year-old singer and songwriter says of the Reese Witherspoon law-school comedy that came out three years before she was born. But wait: Growing up in small-town Alabama, Murph was a talented and dedicated cheerleader. Does Harvard even have cheerleaders?

“They probably do,” she says, tilting her head as she considers the question. “I don’t know if it’s like the main thing, though. It’s true you don’t really hear about it. They have all the expensive sports: lacrosse, polo, horse riding.” She laughs. “Horse riding would be lit too.”

Whatever the case, Murph soon cast aside her Ivy League aspirations — not to mention her devotion to cheer, though that’s come back more recently — and refocused on her first love of music. Now, instead of preparing for sophomore year, she’s just released her second major-label album, “Sex Hysteria,” which includes the top 20 pop hit “Blue Strips” and which — true to the LP’s title — has set off a minor internet controversy with the racy music video for her song “1965.”

An Amy Winehouse-ish retro-soul number with a ringing malt-shop piano lick, “1965” is about longing for romance the way they did it in the old days: “We’d go to diners and movies and such,” Murph sings in her scratchy Southern drawl, “We’d just hold hands and I’d love every touch.” Elsewhere in the song, the nostalgia darkens as Murph acknowledges that “I might get a little slap-slap” from her man and that “I would be 20, and it’d be acceptable for you to be 40.” (“That is f— up, I know,” she adds of the age gap.)

The song’s NSFW video goes even further, with traces of pornography and suggestions of domestic violence that have invited criticism that Murph is advocating (or at least aestheticizing) a kind of tradwife oppression at a precarious moment for women’s rights. Murph addressed the blowback in a video on TikTok, where she has 11 million followers, writing, “This entire song is satire r yall stupid” — proof, perhaps, that her point didn’t quite land as she’d hoped.

Yet this week, “Sex Hysteria” debuted on Billboard’s album chart at No. 8, not long after Lana Del Rey — a key influence on Murph with a long history of online outrage — posted a video of herself pole dancing to “Blue Strips,” whose title refers to the security marking on a $100 bill that might be tossed at an exotic dancer. All the attention has combined to put Murph in the conversation for a best new artist nod at February’s Grammy Awards.

“Writing this album, I was in the studio every day for like six months straight,” she says on a recent afternoon near Venice Beach. “Didn’t go out, didn’t do anything — was just grinding.” We’re talking at the end of a long day of promo for “Sex Hysteria”; she’s wearing jeans and a Hysteric Glamour T-shirt, her inky-black hair hanging loose around her face. “But it’s so cool because you go in there with nothing and you make something out of thin air,” she says. “Then you get to listen to it, and it’s therapeutic for what you’re feeling.”

Though it opens with a track in which she attributes her becoming a songwriter to “my father and the f— up s— he did,” “Sex Hysteria” is a more playful record than last year’s “That Ain’t No Man That’s the Devil,” which Murph says exorcised “a lot of anger and hurt that I needed to get out, even just for myself, before I could move on to the next phase.” (A representative lyric from “Dirty”: “I woke up this morning kind of mad / Flipped the switch, I had the urge to beat your ass.”)

Here, in contrast, she’s singing about her interest in “whips and chains” in the sock-hoppy “Touch Me Like a Gangster” and bragging about the Malibu mansion she just bought in “Blue Strips” — a mansion, she clarifies, she does not actually own.

“Not yet,” she adds. “That line was just the first thing that came out of my mouth when I was writing the song. It feels so glittery, the thought of living in Malibu. It’s always been something I’ve wanted to do.” What shaped her ideas about the storied coastal enclave as a child in the Deep South? “I’m a really big fan of ‘Property Brothers’ — I’m sure I saw it on there.”

Murph moved to L.A. about a year and a half ago from Nashville, where she established a foothold in the music industry with collaborations like “Wild Ones,” a duet with Jelly Roll that has more than 300 million streams on Spotify, and “High Road,” a No. 1 country-radio hit by her and Koe Wetzel that led to a nomination for new female artist of the year at May’s ACM Awards.

“Sex Hysteria” dials down the explicit country trappings in favor of thumping bass lines and woozy trap beats; her guests on the album are Gucci Mane and Lil Baby. Yet the album demonstrates a certain stylistic blurriness that’s comes to define country music no less than any other genre in the streaming era.

“Whether it’s country or pop or whatever, I think Jessie Murph is just Jessie Murph,” says Bailey Zimmerman, the Nashville up-and-comer who teamed with Murph last year for the rootsy “Someone in This Room” and whose own music shares a casually hybridized quality with Murph’s. “It may not sound country, but what she’s talking about usually is.”

Like many in her generation, Murph found her voice posting covers of popular songs online. The oldest video on her YouTube is titled “11 year old sings titanium” and, sure enough, shows a young Murph squinting into the camera as she performs Sia and David Guetta’s 2011 stadium-rave jam. At 16, having built a following on Instagram and TikTok while in high school in Athens, Ala., she signed to Columbia Records and started releasing singles; by 2023 she’d dropped a mixtape called “Drowning” and recorded songs with Diplo and Maren Morris.

Jessie Murph

(Annie Noelker / For The Times)

For “Sex Hysteria,” she drew inspiration from Patsy Cline, Wanda Jackson and both Presleys — Elvis and Priscilla. Murph says her mother told her that when Jessie was 3, she came into the kitchen and announced that she’d been Elvis in a past life. Has Jessie been to Graceland?

“No, but my mom went there when she was pregnant with me,” she says, widening her kohl-rimmed eyes.

She titled the album in reference to the dismissive way women were described as “hysterical” in the 1950s and ’60s — “women who were depressed or anxious or just feeling normal emotions,” she says. Does she think women are more free to express themselves half a century later?

“I definitely feel free if I’m feeling some type of way — obviously I’m saying it in songs and not holding anything back. But I think everyone’s experience is very different. I’m sitting in a different spot than somebody three doors down is, you know? And different countries and different political settings — I’m sure it’s something that’s a problem in places.”

To a degree, the backlash to Murph’s “1965” has overlapped with the criticism Sabrina Carpenter drew when she revealed the cover of her upcoming “Man’s Best Friend” album, which depicts Carpenter kneeling before a man who’s pulling her hair.

“The weirdest part about it is that it’s a lot of women who are hating,” Murph says. “But I think some people are weirded out by my age. A lot of people met me when I was 16 or 17 and a much different person — which, thank God I’m a different person.” She sighs. “I don’t know. When people find you at a certain age, it’s like you need to be frozen in time. Let me live.”

This week, Murph launched a world tour behind “Sex Hysteria” that she previewed with a buzzy performance at April’s Coachella festival in which she brought some of her old cheerleading moves into the choreography she’s emphasizing for the first time. (She’ll circle back to Southern California for a Sept. 27 stop at the Shrine Expo Hall.)

“Certain things come naturally to me and certain things don’t,” she says. “The dance stuff is one of the things I’m grilling myself on.”

Another of her goals this year: spending less time on social media. “That s— is terrible for your mental health,” she says even as she admits that YouTube and TikTok have been crucial to her ascent. “I’m on World War III TikTok right now, where they’re talking about World War III. And I just keep scrolling, because now I’m nervous about World War III.

“I think it’s scary how young kids are getting phones,” she adds. “That YouTube video you brought up — I could have posted something crazy at that age, right? Even being 16 and having TikTok — I look back at some of the things I posted, and I’m like, Why would you post that, bro?”

On the stunning “What’s It All For” on her new album, “I Want My Loved Ones to Go With Me,” Noah Cyrus sings: “Why have a family/If that ain’t what you want?/Why have a child/You don’t know how to love?

I’ve asked all of these questions/And I got one more/If that’s all there is/Then what’s it all for?/What’s it all for?”

Cyrus, often writing with Australian singer-songwriter PJ Harding, has a way of storytelling that captures the grit and highs and lows of real life the way Kris Kristofferson does on the classic “Sunday Morning Comin’ Down,” or John Mellencamp and Lucinda Williams do.

Her song, “July,” released when she was 19, was praised by the likes of John Mayer and Leon Bridges and has more than a billion streams. So the potential for something special has always been there. But now that she has put it all together on “I Want My Loved Ones to Go With Me” the result transcends special. The 11 songs on the album bridge storytelling with classic country and folk sounds that hark back to the ‘70s, a la songs like the Eagles’ “Wasted Time.”

“I hope that this record, when I hear it, I hear something that’s very classic and reminds me of music that’s been around for a very long time,” she says.

Cyrus has that “classic” music in her blood and bones. Old soul is often a trite, overused expression, but when you grow up in a famous family in the public eye, as Noah Cyrus has, it is an accurate one — her father is country music veteran Billy Ray Cyrus and her sister is pop star Miley Cyrus.

Cyrus said she grew up faster than most people her age. “I’ve been touring since I was 16, I’ve been making music since I was 16,” she tells The Times. “ I grew up in a family that was in the public eye. I think with that there were certain things that we could and couldn’t do, that felt restricted because of the public eye or the way we’d be judged or the way we were judged whenever we made mistakes just as kids.”

She turned 25 in January, which brought a new maturity. Like another all-time great songwriter, Jackson Browne, who famously wrote “These Days” when he was 16, Cyrus has shown a wisdom beyond her years.

“I found out a lot about my senses on a song and learning to trust that as a songwriter,” Cyrus said. “I learned a lot how to lead for myself as a musician.”

(Jason Renaud)

She addresses growing up throughout the album. “I turned 25 this January and I talk about this on the record It’s one of the themes of the album … growing up and new countries about walking on your own two feet and going into unknown land and no matter where you go, there you are. And just learning how to deal with that and cope with that as a young adult,” she says. “That was something that was going on at the time of creating this record. That’s why I just fell into the themes because as a person I was like, ‘How do I not second-guess myself with every single move? How do I learn to trust myself? How do I learn how to become an adult that’s going to be a mother one day? How do I grow up so one day I can take care of another actual person?’”

Having confronted fame and the insecurity that comes with youth, she was ready to take control of her artistic vision with this album.

“I found out a lot about my senses on a song and learning to trust that as a songwriter. I learned a lot how to lead for myself as a musician. This is the first record that I have actual producer credits on and I actually produce some of these songs with Mike [Crossey],” she says. “It was a really beautiful experience and a great learning experience. I really was surprised by those intuitions. And when I listened to the final product, I think it’s the first time in my career where I’m actually really proud of myself.”

Cyrus made sure her personal touch was felt on every aspect of the record, including the eclectic quartet of guests: Robin Pecknold of Fleet Foxes, Bill Callahan, Ella Langley and Blake Shelton.

She made sure the invite to Shelton on “New Country” came directly from her. “I really wanted to personally talk to Blake and wrote him a letter and did all the things to really make this a personal connection,” she says. “Blake and I have a mutual friend on the song — Amy Wadge, she’s one of my favorite songwriters and I love her so much. It was like a God thing telling me you have to reach out to Blake. When I heard that song, it was Blake’s from the beginning. And Blake made it happen. It felt like this spiritual thing that was bound to happen and something that was just written up there in the stars was having Blake on this record.”

For all the notable guests, the centerpiece of the album fittingly features Cyrus’ grandfather. The mesmerizing spiritual hymn “Apple Tree,” which is like the love child of a Nick Cave song and Dolly Parton track, is built around her grandfather’s voice.

“I do feel like ‘Apple Tree’ is a song from God because of the prayer that is said at the end and spoken by my grandfather Ron Cyrus,” she says.

It’s fitting that the song features her grandfather because “I Want My Loved Ones to Go With Me” is very much Cyrus returning to her Nashville roots and the music she grew up around. Though she says it’s just a happy accident, her embracing the music that is her birthright coincides with the surge in popularity of country music.

“When I was making this album, country was really getting its mainstream momentum again and taking over the world again as it was when I was a baby, when CMA fans used to have Fanfare and stuff. I remember my dad doing Fanfare. For me it’s really awesome because I think country music has so much more of a wider audience and so many people are starting to connect with country,” she says. “I think that was just God’s timing with the album and everything and it all lining up.”

While artists have been increasingly embracing country, for Cyrus this wasn’t about a trend — she was following the natural order of things. Many musicians will say that as they get older, they return to their roots.

So this was Cyrus coming home. “The more freedom I got I just kept putting more and more of myself into the record, which is metaphorically and literally back to my roots. I think I’ve been longing to feel closer to where I come from. I put that into my music and that’s such a beautiful outlet for me. And I think there’s so many people, not just kids, as an adult, as your parent, you feel things, they’re just like you and the child inside you, it’s all still broken, no matter how old you get, you still have that inner child inside of you. I think a lot of that inner child goes into my music and you hear a lot of my inner child.”

Though Cyrus loves the storytelling aspect of classic country records, it is just as much about the sound of those albums and artists as it is the lyrics. She reveled in that raw, organic sound in making this album.

“The more freedom I got I just kept putting more and more of myself into the record, which is metaphorically and literally back to my roots,” Cyrus said.

(Hannah DeVries)

“That was a fun thing for me again to learn is when you take all the bells and whistles away on a vocal and you just have that person’s originality and that person’s personality and let that shine through on a vocal. That’s the best thing you can do, just have the most amazing and natural raw vocals for people to hear and that’s what I love about the genre of country music and especially older records where you’re singing full takes and that’s what the record is. That’s a lot of the time what Mike and I like to do with our songs, is our songs are full takes of everything. We like everything to feel live, and I think that’s an important part of the record.”

The goal was an album that defies categorization and time. She wanted a record that if you had found it in 1975 and put it on right next to Bob Dylan’s “Blood on the Tracks” or you played it in 2025 it would have sounded of that time. In her pursuit of that lofty goal, she transcends the genre tag. This isn’t what most people think of as country today. The closest contemporary artist would be Chris Stapleton, who, when seen live, embodies a Neil Young solo acoustic; it could be country, folk, rock.

That’s what Cyrus set out to do. “When I hear it, I hear a record that will hopefully give the listener a chance to heal as it was a really healing experience for myself,” she says. “And I hope that this record, for me, is something that in 20 years … people are still mentioning and it’s a monumental album in the timeline of my career.”

Noah Cyrus performs Friday at The Ford at 8 p.m.

My husband and I spent much of the weekend driving from Los Angeles to Petaluma, and back, to attend a wedding. The trip began, as our car trips inevitably do, with my husband asking me to find the best route via Apple Maps and then arguing with every direction the app offered.

Out loud, as if the app’s “voice” could hear him.

As in “What? That makes no sense. Why take the 118 when we can just keep going and pick up the 5 in a few miles?” or “I knew we should have taken my shortcut back there. Look, now we’re just sitting in traffic. I thought these apps were supposed to help you avoid traffic.”

If, during these early explosions, I am sufficiently caffeinated, I calmly suggest that the traffic on alternate routes is probably much worse. If I am not, I simply snap that he was the one who asked to use Maps in the first place and if he doesn’t like it, he should just take whatever route he wants like he always does anyway.

We have been married for a very long time.

Long enough, in fact, for me to remember a time when the voice he would argue with was mine, as I bent over the Thomas Guide or some impossibly large map and we exchanged, in heated tones, our deep and personal feelings for one route or another. (He, for example, thinks the 405 is just another freeway while I know it is a shimmering sliver of Hell designed by Satan to suck the life out of unwary motorists.)

After 30 years of road travel together, I know that any trip of more than 10 miles will be filled with either exasperation over roadwork delays or complaints about how “they really need to fix this road” and that there is no point in arguing that local government simply does not have the organizational wherewithal, never mind the motivation, to “time the lights” in such a way to intentionally make his life more difficult. (But if L.A. city or county is looking for someone to fix their traffic lights, Richard is available.)

As we headed toward the wedding, I found myself hoping that the couple we would be celebrating had spent enough time in the car together. Any long-term personal relationship requires the acknowledgment and acceptance of certain things about your partner. In L.A. especially, that means being able to live with the way they drive, even when … no, especially when, this seems at odds with every other facet of their nature.

My husband is a rational man who believes in the laws of science. Until he enters a car and his notion of time and space become defined by movement — any “shortcut” that allows the car to remain in motion is better than sitting in traffic, even if it makes the trip much longer in minutes and miles.

He is also notably sweet and sympathetic, always willing to think the best of his fellow humans. Except from behind the windshield, where he views the world as teeming with schemers and brutes, acting on all manner of Machiavellian impulses. If Richard designed a driving app, it would be called “This Sonuvabitch.”

As in “this sonuvabitch knows I want to get over and keeps creeping up so I can’t.” Or “this sonuvabitch is mad because I passed him and now he’s riding my tail.”

Traffic in L.A. is quite literally maddening and I too am guilty of loudly questioning the sanity of that guy in the blue Honda who thinks he can make a left on La Cienega at rush hour or the woman who has stopped traffic in an effort to parallel park in a space that anyone with eyes can see is too small for her freaking Bronco. But I never take their choices personally.

Richard takes it all very personally, offering a steady stream of criticism and muttered instructions — ”that’s it, you can do it, just turn the wheel, it’s not difficult” — to any driver not performing up to his standards.

Neither conversation nor music provides much of a distraction — he will talk right over his beloved Aaron Copland, never mind me. Even the suggestion that he put his ability to conjure such vividly precise character defects and psychological motivations to better use in, say, fiction writing, has been to no avail.

He is, I hasten to add, a good and safe driver, aggressive only rhetorically. And so, as one must do in marriage, I have sought the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. As we made our expletive-fueled way up the 5, I silently soothed myself with the knowledge that in a couple of hours, we’d need to take a restroom break and then I would slide into the driver’s seat and stay there until we arrived. Since our rule is that the driver controls the audio, I had queued up “I, Claudius” read by Derek Jacobi on Audible.

I have also been married long enough to know that the one thing my former-theater critic husband won’t disrupt is a masterful performance.

Not so Maps, which, as we neared San José, began chiming in with a quite complicated alternate route, designed, I assumed, to avoid freeway traffic. Richard was not at all pleased by either the interruptions or the route, and it was frankly hilarious to listen to him vent about precisely the sort of shortcut he himself is known for.

Indeed, I found myself feeling a personal bond with the calm and implacable voice guiding our progress even as my spouse spluttered and argued. Not only was she a third-party recipient of road-trip frustration, the voice of Maps seemed to take on the kind of objective helpfulness of a good therapist.

She is simply not interested in the “you always,” “I never” emotional quagmires a gridlocked freeway or rerouting decision can churn up. When I missed a turn, she didn’t care at all when my husband asked if whoever programmed Maps had ever actually driven a car and if they were so smart, could they not see that truck that wouldn’t let us get over?

She just continued to suggest that we “proceed to the route.”

Being the proud participant in a decades-long relationship, which, despite its many compromises and workarounds, remains solid and loving, I, of course, had been wondering what sort of advice I might, if only in my imagination, offer the soon-to-be-newlywed couple.

And here was Maps doing it for me.

Marriage is like a road trip; no matter how much you love the other person in the car, if it lasts long enough, you will drive each other a little nuts. My husband’s explosive commentary sometimes amuses me and sometimes wears me down. But at this point, if he didn’t complain about the timing of the lights or “this sonuvabitch who doesn’t know you can make a right on red,” I would worry that he was having a stroke.

Among the glories of the journey and the intimacy of the conversation, there will always be missed turns, ill-fated routes and arguments over how to cope with the forces that surround you. But if you choose to stay in the car, then the only real option is to keep moving forward.

Or as Maps would say, proceed to the route.