Familiarity has bred its share of contempt on the musical stage lately, as well-known song catalogs have spawned such tin-eared efforts as “Lennon,” “Ring of Fire,” and “Hot Feet.”

But what about an assemblage of tunes that met with considerably larger success in England? Might what we don’t know not hurt us? That’s the question posed by “Shout! The Mod Musical,” a high-energy, low-IQ barrage of seemingly every 1960s Brit-chick tune, except, regrettably, “Alfie.”

The results, as conceived by David Lowenstein and director Phillip George, prove more convincing than they have any right to be. Despite a groan-inducing script and an off-putting, hard-sell approach to virtually every song, this paean to Swingin’ ’60s girl power makes up in toe-tapping enthusiasm what it lacks in subtlety. The show’s tireless efforts should bring out the Austin Powers in all but the most curmudgeonly Anglophobes.

Although a handful of these songs originated in America, most owe their success to the likes of Shirley Bassey and Petula Clark. Along with a fair number of relatively obscure titles, they include “To Sir With Love,” the damnably catchy “Downtown,” and Dusty Springfield’s Memphis-meets-Mayfair scorcher “Son of a Preacher Man,” plus a few Burt Bacharach numbers and James Bond theme songs.

It’s not a bad batch, actually, though many of them are better known in America from subsequent cover versions and other pop-culture appropriations. Kanye West and the White Stripes found recent success with “Diamonds Are Forever” and “I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself,” respectively, and Quentin Tarantino cemented his musical-magpie reputation when he set a pivotal scene in “Pulp Fiction”to “Son of a Preacher Man.”

(Judging from the show’s title, the producers presumably banked on these other associations: I doubt I’m the only one who associates “Shout!”with a toga-clad John Belushi in “Animal House” rather than a 15-year-old Lulu.)

Jukebox musicals that draw from a broader swath of material, as opposed to the work of a particular group or songwriter, find themselves at an automatic disadvantage in terms of cohesion. Rather than a specific melodic “voice,” these shows take their cues from any and every song that may have charted during a particular era. (The term “jukebox musical,” however, actually makes more sense when applied to a show such as “Shout!” How many jukeboxes play only Frankie Valli songs?)

“Shout!” attempts to solve this quandary by presenting five archetypal ladies who have virtually no interaction with each another. In lieu of dialogue, the book scenes — snapshots of Beatlemania, the Pill, Twiggy, and other ’60s flashpoints — are really just a series of “Laugh-In”-style vignettes. David Gallo’s witty, love-beaded set would have fit right in with that show, along with Philip Heckman’s scrumptious costumes and Mr. Lowenstein’s hip-swiveling choreography.

Actually, the wit of “Laugh-In” looks positively Shavian by comparison. Peter Charles Morris and Mr. George are credited in the “Shout!” program for their “mod musings and groovy gab,” perhaps sensing that calling their material “a script”or “funny”might be a tad dishonest. (“I love my new vinyl boots, but I hate to think of how many vinyls they killed to make them,” one lady says. I’m not sure how the vinyls fared, but I suspect that gag may have taken out a few audience members.)

The women’s defining characteristic is their monochromatic outfits. Red (Denise Summerford) wears glasses and gets nervous around blokes.Yellow (Erin Crosby) is a transplanted American who worships Paul McCartney. Orange (Julie Dingman Evans) is stuck in a bad marriage; she’s not without options, though, as she shifts rather inexplicably to Purple two-thirds of the way through the show. Blue (Marie-France Arcilla) is a conceited fashion plate who might be attracted to women. And Green (Erica Schroeder) sleeps around.

All five open their hearts to a superficial advice columnist — the dependable Carole Shelley performs the voiceover — before ringing in the “Me Decade”by spurning her retrograde advice. The women follow up this audience-pleasing act of empowerment by running offstage and changing into even shorter miniskirts.

The five performers all do right by the vocals, conforming ably to the era’s lack of “American Idol”-style melisma, even though keeping pace with musical director Bradley Vieth’s goosed-up tempos can’t be easy. (Mr. Vieth does contribute some charming, albeit sparingly used vocal harmonies.) The acting is not nearly as strong, although anyone would have a tough time with this material. Only the endearingly awkward Ms. Summerford, whose “To Sir With Love” ranks among the evening’s highlights, gets the better of her skits.

Ultimately, the skimpy orchestrations, terrible gags, and on-again-off-again English accents are just barely outweighed by the crisp charms of these pop confections, which brought a melodic tidiness to a messy decade.Finding an actual jukebox with these eminently Frug-worthy tunes (plus “Alfie,” please!) would be worth the effort. Even if it required a flight to Heathrow.

Open run (45 Bleecker St. at Lafayette Street, 212-307-4100).