Jet is quite possibly the most worthless band on the planet. Their shameless mix of AC/DC, the Stones and the Faces (and it seems they can't decide if they want to fully embrace The Beatles) is not only unoriginal, it's not even as good as that of many bands who attempt essentially the same thing. "Shine On" is even more derivative, more unimaginative, than their 2003 debut, "Get Born," and that's saying quite a lot.
Frontman Nic Cester has no charisma, and his voice offers nothing to remember. The riffs aren't at all interesting; the guitar solos are entirely forgettable. The lyrics leave much to be desired, and the melodies don't make it sound any better.
The production is confused, trying to decide between polish and rawness, and the result is an annoyingly ingenuine sound. "Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is" is the kind of song that begs for a cowbell in the worst way, and Jet gives it. There are a million songs just like this one, and its only slightly interesting aspect is that its falsetto verses offer a welcome reprieve from the shouting that consumes much of the album.
"Hey Kids" is a downright terrible song, its lazy rhyming and pointless lyrics managing to make way for a painfully awkward Vietnam reference. Cester creatively fills the empty spaces with varieties of "Aahhh" and "Come on." Breathtaking. Jet's ballads, while still not very good, outdo its louder efforts. "Eleanor" is the album's one bright spot, the only track that sounds like maybe, just maybe, its components weren't stolen directly from somewhere else. I actually wanted to listen to this one twice. It walks alone.
"Kings Horses" is a half-decent song, meaning it's about four times better than most of the album. It, too, is not original by any means, but at least its tinkling keys, acoustic guitars and understated vocals make it somewhat pleasant. If Jet could stay hushed, as in the first 30 or so seconds of this one, it might manage to put out something that sums up to more than nothing.
"Shine On" is an album that makes the mediocrity of its predecessor seem appealing. Both albums and their makers should be soon forgotten, left to take their footnote of a place in rock history as an example of what not to do with music. Alex Robertson attends Clovis West High School.
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