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The wages of sin can make for a decent salary, and choirboy-turned-microphone fiend Thomas “Cee-Lo” Callaway knows this well. “You get rich talking shit / So why shouldn’t I?” he asks near the end of this second solo trip--before adding: “I’m just playing / But that couldn’t go without saying.”

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If the rise of Jamaican syllable swinger Sean Paul and any number of mush-mouthed Dirty South MCs tells you anything, it’s that pop lyrics don’t need to be intelligible to get over.

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With the history of recorded music up for digital grabs, it’s fire-sale time: Major labels are emptying their vaults so fast that CD-pressing plants must be doing triple shifts. This isn’t a bad thing, because: (a) everyone needs overtime in a screwed economy, and (b) fans get access to hard-to-find material. The only questions are: How good is the stuff? and How bad is your habit?

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Pop radio is so appalling that even a modest charmer like Nelly Furtado’s “I’m Like a Bird” makes you kneel in gratitude. Her slurpy, slightly nasal tomboy flow suggested what Missy or Gwen’s often does: that an honest oddball had found herself in a hit song and decided to make it interesting.