Most Jags snarl richly, sounding a bit like fine silk being shredded.
Elegant noise spills from their polished exhausts like gold from a Vegas slot machine.
Even when they rumble, it's never enough to sully the buttery Napa leather and wool carpet inside.
But like everything else in self-absorbed America, buttoned-down Jags are getting ruder.
Here's what you need to know first about the newest Jaguar, the strutting 2014 F-Type V-8 S: Its snarl becomes a dark, back-alley bellow at speed that rattles English teacups and Baptist preachers.
It spits and hisses and howls, and may well be Bob Seger's fire down below.
And when you back off the throttle, the 495-horsepower F-Type pops and cracks, pummeling the air like a NASCAR racer with an English accent.
Don't tell Jeremy Clarkson, but I think the car has been hanging out with Corvettes.
The F-Type is Jag's first true two-seat sports car in decades. Inspired loosely by the breathtaking E-Type Jag from the '60s, the F-Type becomes the well-dressed hooligan among Jag's slinky GT and sedan cruisers.
Get this: A button on the console of the F-Type I had recently opened the baffles on the car's aggressive four-inch exhaust tips, causing them to roar like a maniacal Mustang with Flowmasters.
Does that sound properly British to you? Maybe soggy weather and socialism aren't all that bad.
The striking roadster is built on a shortened version of Jag's midsize XF platform, and it's available with one of two supercharged V-6s or the rambunctious V-8.
Give me excess every time _ I'll pay for it later. Over 60, a tiny spoiler rises from the aluminum around the F-Type's trunk, giving it the feel of a clandestine street racer.
Though it is the smallest Jag, the F-Type runs rich.
The base V-6 model starts at $69,000, and my maxed-out F carried a Porsche-like sticker of $106,770.
Although shorter and thicker than the old E-Type, my metallic British racing green F-Type had roughly the same alluring long-hood, short-trunk proportions as the E-Type.
A big, blacked-out oval grille and long, slender headlamps high on clamshell fenders added to the E-Type feel.
Gaze down the car's smooth, muscular sides and a slight curve in its body panels also suggests E-Type.
Even the thin, horizontal tail lamps that wrapped around the rear fenders looked vaguely familiar in a contemporary way.
But enough of that. This jut-jawed, pumped-up kid can roll on its own.
Mine flashed fantastic 20-inch gray "blade-forged" wheels with carbon-fiber inserts _ a $2,500 option _ wrapped by very meaty 255/35 tires up front and 295/30s in back.
Massive red brake calipers peeked out from between the dark spokes of the wheels.
They weren't just for looks. The Jag's brutish five-liter V-8 was tied to a tight-shifting eight-speed automatic with copper-colored shift paddles on the steering wheel.
Right off idle, the F-Type's supercharged motor pushes you deeply into the car's finely stitched dark-brown bucket seats.
And, like a serious street fighter, it just kept shoving, feeling even stronger at 6,000 rpm than at 3,000.
Keep your foot in it _ waving your cowboy hat with one hand while hanging on with the other _ and the Jag will blast to 60 in a scant 3.9 seconds, according to Motor Trend.
That fun comes at a price: 16 miles per gallon in town and an unremarkable 23 on the highway.
But no other Jag can show its taillights to a V-8 F-Type in a straight line.
Moreover, few other Jags can run with it on a track. At nearly two tons _ or about 300 pounds heavier than many had expected _ the F-Type carries too much weight to be really crisp in corners.
But it turns into curves with serious aggression and zero body lean, powering through them noisily with impressive control.
Don't expect a polished Jaguar ride, though. While not bouncy or harsh, my F-Type felt kind of firmly hyper, its fairly stiff suspension moving all the time.
Initially, I thought the quick, heavy steering lacked feel. But it lightened some at speed and seemed slightly livelier.
Despite its weight _ 700 pounds more than a new Corvette _ the F-Type felt like a twitchy, reasonably agile, real-deal sports car most of the time.
And like true sportsters, the F-Type even seemed a bit snug inside.
Not that it much mattered to me, a man of, uh, modest proportions. I liked the curvy dashboard, covered in smooth black leather and the big, simple buttons on the center stack for climate control and the stereo.
I also appreciated the F-Type's black canvas-like top, which lowered with the push of one button in about 20 seconds.
You can get rid of your overpriced therapist if you just hit two buttons in the F-Type every day: one to lower the top and the other to open the exhausts.
But I never came to like the F-Type's electronic console-mounted shifter, which required a button on the front of the shift lever to be depressed for every shift.
And it lacked logic. If I pulled back once from "park," expecting "reverse," I got "drive" instead. So look at the gear indicator before you leap.
Occasionally, my Jag also seemed intent on killing me. About half the time that I engaged the sport-mode button _ juicing up the engine and tightening the already taut suspension _ I got a bizarre warning.
With a triangle and exclamation point flashing hysterically on the instrument panel, the Jag announced that its traction control, electronic suspension control and emergency brake assist had been mysteriously disabled.
Hmmm. I wondered if I would be ejected next.
After multiple pushes of the "OK" button on the steering wheel, the warning receded, only to return later.
But I didn't really care about electronic gremlins. Jaguars in general offer bigger personalities and better lines than most of their German competitors.
Choose the F-Type V-8 convertible, and you'll get to open a stylish, well-developed box of wild every morning.
It's better in every way than corn flakes.