With compact disc sales are at an all-time nadir, especially with millions of young people downloading their favorite albums in their entirety, I'm curious as to who's still buying the goofy old Now! compilations. Do the music industry suits really expect a Ne-Yo admirer to sit through Keith Urban for $12? That said, as an across-the-board enjoyer of much pop singles myself, I note that the past twelve months have boded fantastically well for three minute radio pleasure romps and in doing so agreed to give the ultimate Clear Channel mixtape a go.

This is an exercise in superfluity, as the average Lost at Sea reader doubtfully needs a reason in print to hate Daughtry's "Home." Nonetheless, Justin Timberlake and Beyonce, two inclusions in this set, are taken seriously as album artists by even us glasses-adjusting indie-rockers now, an indicator that the time is shifting from the days when punk rockers beat the shit out of the disco kids. In 2007, the punk rockers are the disco kids.

I like most everything nominated for something at this year's Video Music Awards, so I figured a pop document of now would be as good as any, and for a little bit, I was right. Songs I never felt anything for like Fall Out Boy's "Thnks Fr Th Mmrs," and Gwen Stefani and Akon's "The Sweet Escape," improve in a context where pure sugar is constantly interlocking; they ride the glorious landslide of Avril Lavigne's underappreciated brat-rally "Girlfriend," like the 8:30 spot from NBC's old Must See TV Thursdays. But then Fergie's vapid "Glamorous," stunk up the room. And Pink's "U + Ur Hand," sounded better on last year's surprisingly durable I'm Not Dead. And so it went: solid bricks like T-Pain's "Buy You A Drank," and Timberlake's "Summer Love" alternated with gooey mortar like Mims' forgettable "Like This" and Boys Like Girls' hypoglycemic "The Great Escape."

Some of the ones I didn't know sounded better than expected, like Keith Urban's surprisingly Celtic "I Told You So," where the violin revs like a new drill bit. But even those I've already forgotten. If you think ubiquitous pop is junk, wait 'til you hear its rejects: goodbye forever, Elliott Yamin. The irony is that most of the best here (focused pop and R&B rather than the just-add-water "rock" bands) come from even better albums. Really, spring for the deluxe edition of Beyonce's B'Day to get the saucy Shakira duet. There's more where that came from.

The golden exception is Carrie Underwood's epochal "Before He Cheats," a daring (xylophone on the bridge!) little tune where American Idol's best-ever discovery smashes a two-timer's four-wheel drive and slashes the tires. It's a masterpiece for country music, cheating songs, American Idol and, well, ears. It easily outclasses anything else here or on Underwood's own Some Hearts and remains in search of the perfect home. Are you better off experiencing it with four or five other easily-available good songs wading in weedable nobodies? Not for $12. This is what Soulseek was invented for. Now that's what I call quality control.