Justin Timberlake performed "Mirrors" from his upcoming 20/20 Experience album at last night's BRIT Awards in London. When that track was released after the Grammy Awards, it seemed like an energizing, skittery return to FutureSex/LoveSounds Justin. In the live context, it was just as dull as his R. Kelly-lite Grammys rendition of "Suit & Tie" and "Pusher Love Girl."

Disco-nerd alert: Legend Giorgio Moroder's "first-ever live DJ set" will be part of May's NYC Red Bull Music Academy.

Music mogul Clive Davis came out in his memoir, The Soundtrack of My Life, but it is one of his protégés who's expressing "It Gets Better" sentiment — to herself. First season American Idol winner and occasional shit-talker Kelly Clarkson has hit back at some claims in Davis' book on her blog. Her missive, of course, begins "Hey y'all." Clarkson continues:

A few days ago, a remix of Autotuned warbler Future's "Karate Chop" made its way onto the Internet. Metaphorical extraordinaire Lil Wayne guests on the track and in his own Autotuned warble, delivers the line, "Beat that pussy up like Emmett Till."

After flirting with Twitter last year, it seems that Madonna has decided to give herself over to Instagram. On Saturday, she posted an image of herself peering over a martini glass with the caption "Cheers motherfuckers! I'm on instagram." She looks severe and soul-hungry, like Mr. Burns in a blonde wig with bangs.

Jon Caramanica's reading of the Grammys' antiquated value system is a ferocious explanation of last night's mess.

The lyrics of Jack White's "Love Interruption" go: "I want love to walk right up and bite me / Grab a hold of me and fight me." During his Grammy Awards performance with Ruby Amanfu, it sounds like one or both of them may have said "fuck" instead of "fight." But maybe they didn't.

The Grammy Awards air tonight at 8, which means for about three hours on Twitter, the Grammy Awards will be relevant.

In a Fuse interview with pop cultural cockroach Alexa Chung (she will not go away), Justin Bieber's mom Pattie Mallette revealed her displeasure over his lack of nominations for the upcoming Grammy Awards. Just like everyone in his circle, including his own self-entitled ass, she has an issue with him being denied the possibility of a trophy to recognize his popularity.

Sensitive, out (whatever that means) soul singer Frank Ocean is up for six Grammys, recently saw his beloved debut album channel ORANGE go gold and was the de facto good guy in a recent scuffle with pop culture's Big Bad Wolf, Chris Brown. Right now, Frank Ocean is America's sweetheart. The primary function, then of Jeff Himmelman's 6,000+ word profile on the singer/songwriter for the upcoming issue of the New York Times Magazine, is taking Ocean's image down a peg or two. "Frank Ocean Can Fly" does so immediately by leading with Ocean's snobbery when faced with Himmelman's economy rental car: "Frank Ocean did not want to ride in my rented Ford Fusion; that much was clear," goes the piece's first sentence. Instead, he had Himmelman drive one of his BMWs — Ocean couldn't on account of his New Year's Eve pot bust.

Continued from Part One.

I have seen Woodstock and I have seen The Last Waltz. I have seen Don't Look Back, Eat the Document, and No Direction Home. I have seen the Maysles Brothers' documentary about the Rolling Stones, as well as Jean-Luc Godard's semi-documentary about the Rolling Stones and Robert Frank's notoriously unreleased documentary about the Rolling Stones, which legend has it you're only legally allowed to watch in the presence of both Jagger and Richards. (It was only okay.) I have seen The Great Rock and Roll Swindle as well as The Filth and the Fury, Julien Temple's two different documentaries about the Sex Pistols. I have seen that double-DVD Tom Petty documentary. I have seen the special features. I have seen the movie where Chris Holmes from W.A.S.P. slowly drinks himself nearly to death in a darkened swimming pool enclosure and Ozzy pours the orange juice all over the counter. I have seen David Bowie's cocaine skeleton doing Burroughsian cut-ups on the floor of a luxury hotel in the difficult-to-find TV special Cracked Actor. To varying degrees, I enjoyed all these films, but if you asked me to tell you my very-favorite-ever cinematic document of a rock and roll band, I would have to break down and admit that it's a 10-dollar import DVD of Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show doing a live-for-German-TV performance sometime in 1974.

Lord Jamar of the '90s political-minded hip-hop group Brand Nubian (and who also acted on Oz) has at last weighed in on the skirt Kanye West rocked almost two months ago at the 12-12-12 benefit show at Madison Square Garden (not to mention the several times before that on his Watch the Throne tour with Jay-Z). Yes, finally we have Lord Jamar's voice in the mix, so at last we can put this issue to rest. Jamar isn't a fan, as his new track "Lift Up Your Skirt" attests. Here are some of his lines:

Rolling Stone's most recent issue has Rihanna on the cover, with an accompanying profile by contributing editor Josh Eells. For the piece, Eells goes to a comedy show with the loudly expressive pop star, waits two hours to eat spaghetti with her, and grills the expert decision-maker about rekindling her love affair with Chris Brown, who is "disgusted" by his past behavior, Ri swears. (If you'd like to be filled with unspeakable rage, by all means, her Chris Brown quotes are here.) But there's another very important aspect of Rihanna's recent past that's addressed in the story, over a plate of calamari: the infamous Rihanna Plane.

When Michael Jackson died, people clamored to determine the rightful heir to the King of Pop. None of the contemporary young male singers batted around – Usher, Ne-Yo, certainly not Chris Brown (despite his mother's grandiose claims) — satisfactorily fit the bill. Talent abounds, but none of these guys quite has MJ's levels of musical virtuosity, fascinating eccentricity and the ability to package them in appropriately surreal performance. Granted, the search seemed doomed, as the entire angle of Michael Jackson's celebrity was that there was only one of him. But now it is clear that by turning to men (and men-children), we were looking in the wrong place: the heir to Michael Jackson's throne is none other than King B.

Justin Bieber has a giant chip on his perpetually shirtless shoulder. He isn't doing much press for his new Believe Acoustic album, but he did sit down with Billboard's Bill Werde for a Q&A. Werde describes him as "unfailingly polite, though occasionally he flattens himself down into a black leather couch, hands jammed into his pockets, and seems bored," and "every bit a normal 18-year-old kid." Which is to say, he's a little bit of a dickhead.

After a few rumors and some (fairly obviously) fakeouts, the really real lineup for the 2013 Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival has finally been revealed.

Skinny motherfucker with the high voice Prince has crawled out of the bathtub to give an interview to Billboard. Per his usual press policy and determination to be as big of a pain in the ass as humanly possible, he would not allow veteran music journalist Gail Mitchell to record their interview or take notes:

This version — edit? remix? — of R.E.M.'s "Losing My Religion," digitally processed so that it now uses a major scale, is more than a little bizarre to listen to if you're used to the original. I think I prefer the "Major Scaled" version of "Riders on the Storm" (retitled "Riders on the Rainbow") which turns the ominous original into a pleasant, mellow, jazzy number.

Invincible as herpes, Carly Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe" has topped Village Voice's Pazz & Jop year-end critics poll.