What Rubblebucket overflows with, other bands lack— I just wish I could figure out what it is.

Survival Sounds, the band’s latest album, came out Aug. 26. I should just sit here and discuss it, much like every audiophile and indie music critic will over the next few days. Nevertheless, why would I do that when I’m already having this much fun with their 2013 EP, Save Charlie?

In all honesty, my initial intentions to review the Rubblebucket’s newest tunes died a mere hour before I wrote the first word of this article. Survival Sounds sports an assured tone within its outstanding songs, but each and every one of them stands hundreds of miles away from the EP’s title track, though not necessarily in terms of quality.

A couple of years ago, I walked in with some friends into Berlin, a club in the outskirts of Lima, Peru. An isolated establishment, it brimmed with some of the most apathetic clubbers I’ve ever had the misfortune of witnessing: some peeled labels off their beers, whereas others fell asleep in pink couches by a wasted 92-inch projector screen that limited itself to exhibiting the phrase “Device Not Recognized.” Serbian dubstep blasted through ancient, neglected speakers which cluttered a narrow path that led to the men’s bathroom.

I wished at that precise moment that a specific tune would come on and replace the ear-split. Not a single popular song at the time could have accomplished such an onerous feat — the situation demanded a particular melody that could bring back joy to those somber individuals and get them off the pink couches.

They needed Save Charlie in their lives.

Even though we subsequently left and never mentioned the gloomy nightclub again, the experience remained within the confines of my memory. As I listened to the aforementioned song for the first time last night in the dark, I reminisced upon the night we stumbled into Berlin, and the weary faces appeared to me once again.

This time, however, Save Charlie came on through the prehistoric speakers. Boredom and fatigue vanished with the initial riff — a single clubber put down his beer and provided an accompanying clap, upon which others joined. Soon, the claps turned into a perfect unison. The chairs and pink couches arranged themselves in a flawless circle that teemed with bodies in constant motion before long. In the background, speakers grew limbs and gave their first steps, solely driven by the melody, immersed in a dance awakening.

The delights of this Daft Punk-esque instant classic transcend my connotation of “dance music.” Countless bands, genres and songs come to mind as soon as I hear the term — none of them seem to fit its definition with jigsaw puzzle precision the way Save Charlie does.