Miley Cyrus has always found it easy to capture her audience’s attention. From her Disney days to spearheading 2013’s biggest controversy (twerking, not horse meat), she has shown time and again that she possesses the rare gift of being dramatic in a way that feels genuinely honest.

In January, spinning around a pool in a power suit, belting about her recent divorce in the music video for “Flowers”, she did it again. The irresistibly danceable self-serenading play on Bruno Mars’ “When I was Your Man” hit the charts like a wrecking ball, and deservedly so: it aims near-flawlessly at timeless pop.

“It aims near-flawlessly at timeless pop”

Cyrus’ new album, Endless Summer Vacation, expands upon this aim with varying degrees of success. Its influences can only be described as eclectic; some work better than others, and some don’t work at all. There are moments that stray a little too close to Harry Styles’ dreamy and dancey, aiming-for-80s signature, which is unsurprising when major collaborators on Harry’s House, Tyler Johnson and Kid Harpoon, had a (heavy) hand in much of the production. The sexy-breakfast-core lyricism also borrowed from Styles is bitter and boring in kitschy lines such as “the bed sheets are dirty/ like sticky sweet lemonade” (“Rose Colored Lenses”).

Then there are the songs that hark back to Cyrus’ country roots — and this is where she really shines. “Thousand Miles” is undeniably a highlight: a swinging acoustic ballad reminding us that she walks as easily in cowboy boots as she does in high heels. It’s a shame that Brandi Carlile’s feature amounts to little more than backing vocals when her gliding serenade blends so delightfully with Cyrus’ rich tenor.

It would have been a better choice for second single than the dull 80s revival track “River”, which kicks off the inevitable filler segment — an unfortunate hallmark of Cyrus’ albums. “Violet Chemistry” is so forgettable that it’s almost impressive, and Sia’s feature fails to save the stomping incoherence of “Muddy Feet”. Here the album starts to feel like it lives up to the epithet “endless” for all the wrong reasons.

Thankfully, this prosaic section is ended by “Wildcard”, where Cyrus brings back the gravelly belt that characterises all of her best work. It’s not a risky track, but that’s probably for the best, because the risks taken on this album are a weakness. The times when Cyrus reaches too hard for the label of “experimental pop” (the saxophone solo at the end of “Rose Colored Lenses” and the whisper-spoken verses of “Handstand”) feel awkward and forced in songs that are about as far from avant-garde as it gets.

The album closes with satisfying symmetry in “Wonder Woman”, a hearty piano ballad reflecting on self-love, this time through a sadder lens than the lead single, and then a demo version of “Flowers”, which shows that it stands up as a shower-sing-along break-up song even without its dance beat. It’s in these moments of mature introspection that she reminds us why we love her: Cyrus is charmingly honest, alluringly dramatic, and goddamn can she sing.