Last night, E! premiered the first episode of the three-part mini-reality series Nicki Minaj: My Truth, which chronicles the pop star/rapper's recording of her upcoming Pink Friday: Roman Reloaded rerelease, the prep for her first wide-scale tour and the first days of her (supposedly tumultuous) stint as an American Idol judge. Generally, we saw Nicki being one of two things: a whining, demanding diva over the most frivolous things (clothes, for example) or an egomaniac convinced that she is doing so much for the world (she called her Pink Friday fragrance a "milestone for hip-hop"). Ninety percent of what she says is in a cranky croak and she smiles only occasionally. She seems like the last person you'd ever want to spend time with.

If you think that Stevie Nicks is a bizarre person to weigh in on the Mariah Carey/Nicki Minaj American Idol feud, she'll see your bizarreness and raise you a murderous impulse. Pop music's most cherished witch figure seems to be the last person in the world who doesn't think Mariah and Nicki's public squabbling is a publicity stunt to court interest for the dying brand that is Idol, and that's a great thing because Nicks is saying ridiculous stuff as a result. Stuff like:

Is Nicki Minaj for real?

Who would have thought two pop divas wouldn't be instant BFF?

Whitney Houston's role in Sparkle, Salim Akil's sturdy and enjoyable remake of Sam O'Steen's nearly unwatchable 1976 film of the same name, is tailored to the late diva. As Emma, Houston plays the surly matriarch of a trio of singing sisters – Sister, Delores and Sparkle – and a former singer herself who was "almost killed" by the business. Houston, who co-produced the film, plays the role with the world-weary hoarseness apparent in virtually every public appearance she did in the 10 years before her death. Despite some moments of poignancy, this is mostly light fare and Whitney camps it up with bitchily dignified flair. It is her best acting role, which is not saying very much given that she never suggested she was anything more than competent on screen while alive, but nevertheless, it is a lovely swan song.

As a companion to our glossary of Mariah Carey's 10-cent words, here's a supercut of her talking about her songwriting throughout her 22-year career. Just as she keeps coming back to a heartbreaker, this is something she does incessantly.

It's been, uh, hours since the announcement that Mariah Carey is joining American Idol, and TMZ is already digging up dirt on her last Idol appearance.

Like the Kashif track I posted earlier this month, Krystol's "Nobody's Gonna Get This Loving But You" has been recently remastered (along with the rest of the Gettin' Ready album) by Funkytown Grooves. That label really knows how to please me with glistening electronic funk.

This week sees the release of the 11th R. Kelly album, Write Me Back. It's a follow-up of sorts to 2010's retro-tender Love Letter and just as wonderful of a spotlight for the best male voice in contemporary R&B, period. Like before, it's straightforward soul that's mopped of any potential pee jokes.

Michael Jackson died three years ago today, so here's my favorite remix of my favorite of his songs, done in the mid-90's by none other than the godfather of house, Frankie Knuckles. I love how Frankie keeps all of the elements in that matter (the strings, the horns, the bubble-keyboards) and emphasizes some to make them matter more — I never realized how gorgeous this vocal performance was until I heard the stripped-down intro.

I watched this happen live with my own eyes (at the wedding of my friends Lauren and Bennett Olson). The crowd loved it. Especially the straight guys.

It's been 10 years since Tweet's hit masturbation ode "Oops (Oh My)," with little chart activity in between ("Call Me" went Top 40, so she isn't technically a one-hit wonder, but still...). In another era, there would be no Tweet to speak of a decade later, but thanks to the magic of the Internet, she remains a presence who's taken to releasing a series of barely commercial R&B songs accompanied by the #TweetTuesdays hashtag. These kicked off with an impressively sung remake of Aretha Franklin's "Day Dreaming." The third in the series, "C 4eva," is below. Beatless but propelled by rhythmic cricket sounds, the song finds Tweet oozing delicately over an acoustic guitar. It's equal parts Deniece Williams and Aaliyah. It's so ethereal, it's practically ambient. It sounds like it blew right past the shackles of pop aspiration.

It seems like as good of a day as any to post Peggy Scott's 1997 downlow-discourse trailblazer "Bill," not only because we're in the midst of Gay Pride Month but also because, well, you know. "There are no words that can describe what I felt inside / When I found out the man I love loves another guy," sings Peggy before sharing that she was "ready" to find her husband in the arms of another woman, not another man. The reason remains between the lines, but it's not hard to discern that it's homophobia — the line about Bill, her husband's titular lover, wanting to be her kids' "stepmom" confirms it.

There should be a name for the kind of crisis that occurs between the status-anxious quarter-life type and the desperately youth-reclaiming midlife variety. That male, mid-30's freak out that masquerades as a nonstop party is an Atlantic trend piece waiting to happen, full of quotes from single-ish men who are too immature to know better or men that do know better and consciously flaunt their remaining immaturity.

Céline Dion started a new leg of her latest Las Vegas residency show last weekend and her setlist included a cover of Adele's ubiquitous "Rolling in the Deep," which you can hear above.

At last night's Queen's Jubilee concert in London, the 64-year-old Grace Jones showed the world who the real queen is. Bow down.

Last time we heard from lite '90s crooner Brian McKnight, he dropped an X-rated slow jam for his conceived (still forthcoming, I hope) adult mixtape that proclaimed, "Let me show you how your pussy works / Betcha didn't know that it could squirt." Now, as so many men do, he's moved onto the butthole. In a song he wrote for user-generated smut site YouPorn, he seduces the masses with: "You wanna see some fucking anal? I can get you close enough to smell."

Now, you want to talk about reading? Let's talk about reading:

On the heels of last night's poignant and composed appearance of Bobbi Kristina Brown at the Billboard Awards comes a poignant and composed musical preview of Sparkle, the upcoming remake we're really excited about that will feature Whitney Houston's final movie role. "Celebrate," an R. Kelly-produced stomper is a little disco, a little gospel and a whole lot like something that would have appeared in a '70s artificial sweetener commercial. It's almost too catchy (check that momentary key change that concludes every chorus on the "You celebrate me" line). Whitney's still got her I Look to You-era hoarseness, which you can read as a soulful reflection of a hard-lived life (as I choose to) or as a tangible record of just how hard she fell (her duet partner/Sparkle co-star, Jordin Sparks, sounds utterly gymnastic in comparison).

TMZ reports that premier disco queen and conduit for decades of dance-music advancement Donna Summer died today at age 63. She had cancer.