The problem with punk music is that no one admits they just want to hear some straight-up robotic 4/4 time signatures: People will put up with Bad Religion's logorrhea, The Hives' dumb slogans, even Avril Lavigne's age-play if the bag is relentless enough.

The problem with dance music is that no one actually wants just straight-up robotic 4/4 time signatures. Everyone needs a proper excuse: LCD Soundsystem is clever because he cashes in on hip self-awareness, The Field works the gimmick of slicing and dicing his record collection to a ceaseless pulse, et cetera.

We Are Wolves are what happens when a trio of icky young thumpers flirts with nothing outside the strict "dance" and "punk" box. Whereas people like Avril Lavigne and James Murphy strive to truly be taken seriously, We Are Wolves twerk obsessive joy from simply making their machines buzz. Excepting the goofy, glam-rock "Coconut Night," these one-note rants all share the same propulsive beat and grotesquely distorted organ and synth tricks. If the band wasn't so committed to the forward motion, tracks like "I Wrote Your Name on My Kite" could pogo like the Faint, or the espionage-electro "Magique" could score the next Austin Powers film.

But the punkest thing about this largely unknown group is their utter disinterest in bucking formula. We Are Wolves are committed to their sound, no matter how limited, and they'll keep hammering away until they come up with another jewel as gloriously irreverent as 2005's "T.R.O.U.B.L.E.," which might've been the catchiest dancefloor snot since Prodigy were being courted by Madonna for remix work. Unfortunately there's nothing so significant here. But you have to admire how they pound for it. And maybe the third time around the album cycle will meet We Are Wolves' demands. For now, however, they're busy pushing Total Magique, an album which, for being focused on nothing but forward motion, manages to spin its wheels long and hard enough to dig a hole.