In this instance, the word “formulaic” doesn’t seem like an insult. The songs on Welcome to the Jetset are too energetic to be labeled “uninspired”; instead, it’s as if the whole album were constructed with the philosophy that there’s a very specific way that rock is supposed to sound, dammit, no funny business. Puppy Jet has the formula for the kind of music they want to manufacture down cold, and they’re not about to screw around with New Coke. Just raw-enough guitar (a risk-free medium-rare), 4/4 drum patterns with more high-hat than a Victorian opera audience, and aggressively snotty vocals — this album could’ve come straight out of an airtight time capsule buried in Detroit, circa 1973. Jetset is no Death-like could’ve-been watershed, but PJ might’ve opened for MC5. Put it another way: You won’t need the track list to figure out the song titles (it’s whatever phrase Chris Lange yowls repeatedly), but template-pounder Billy English might need a couple of guesses to pick out the actual Headcoats cover (“All My Feelings Denied”). If you’re the type of music fan who thinks the only worthwhile innovation since the Troggs was giving the amplifier’s volume knob another quarter-turn, welcome to your favorite local album of 2010.