While the retro term post-punk and the contemporary would-be term “dance-punk” have been thrown about reviews of the debut s/t EP from Glasgow rockers Franz Ferdinand like so many lit matchbooks at a powder keg (prompting comparisons to Joy Division and Wire as often as newcomers Interpol and Hot Hot Heat), a more profane pedigree places the groups posture and sound closer to a mixture of T-Rex and Right Said Fred. It’s Scottish-disco-punk.

Something about the mock-earnest-mock passion in lead singer Alex Kapranos’s tenor as he observes, in the dance-inviting track “Michael,” “Beautiful boys on a beautiful dance floor/ Michael you’re dancing like a beautiful dance-whore,” and proceeds to beg, “I’m all that you’ll see[be], you’ll ever see so come and dance with me, Michael” conjurs images of buff Germans in skintight tee-shirts strutting. It’s about as subtle as “It’s Raining Men” but with more conscious camp.

But these buff Germans are actually slinky Scots, fooker, and their agenda involves an old book of goofy steps and the moving-of-their-audience-to-dance-them. With tracks like the aforementioned “Michael,” and others titled “This Fire” and the first single “Take Me Out,” Franz Ferdinand does not advocate dwelling in your sadness or in your parent’s basement; they are fighting the good fight against bad emo (or just emo) — C’mon, Chet, trade in those spectacles and frowns for contact lenses and a black silk button-down.

“Take Me Out” (an obvious choice for a flagship) initially threatens to thrash until the tempo eases down into a decadent game of bouncing beats. It is as if the band wants to lure unsuspecting head-bangers into their otherwise groove-digging fold. Or, it could be that Franz Ferdinand does not want to sift their rawk from their dance-pop, even if the majority of the tracks on this album will sooner get your arms wrapped around a new strange lover than get your eye-socket smacked by some nut’s flailing bald head. The next track, equally strong, follows like wandering into the club’s secret VIP dancefloor. “The Dark of the Matinee” is a ponderous character study. Its narrator seems to be an unscrupulous but successful personality, as he boasts from the darkness “…the boys I hate/ all the girls I hate/ all the words I hate/ all the clothes I hate/ how I’ll never be anything I hate.”

Another highlight, “Darts of Pleasure” contains Franz Ferdinand at their debaucherous best: “You can feel my lips undress your eyes/ undress your eyes undress your eyes/ words of love and words so leisured/ Words are poison darts of pleasure/ Die and so you die.” It’s as if in their lyrics, they are aware of the ugliness inherent in a life of wild times but don’t care about the damage. Subtle un-cliches like “undress your eyes” and “words so leisured” are testament to the band’s inventiveness and refusal to be ordinary.

Bob Hardy (bass) and Paul Thomson (drumming) establish a steady but aggressive strain of the boggie-bounce, making Franz Ferdinand’s rhythm section a pronounced character in their tragic dance-comedy. Nick McCarthy’s guitars get near Mick-Jonesish on many tracks, but his riffs could have appeared in any spy/surf film soundtrack from the 1950s (Agent for H.A.R.M. anyone?). Haunting but hokey synths add just a touch of sci-fi glamor.

In their attitude and in their raucous approach to creating dancy-party music, the band’s spiritual progenitor is the Berlin manifestation of David Bowie (particularly Station to Station), sans his wicked eclecticism and less the influence of Brian Eno. All name-dropping aside, Franz Ferdinand is something new and worthy of your stereo system the next time you’re entertaining guests who just might bust out the moves all over your den or perhaps on your tables and coaches. “Ich heisse super fantastische!”