Space Zone keeps the bar propped up impressively high without treading back over old ground.

Ital has finally found a place to call home, and it suits him very well indeed.

Underpinning the shots White fires at the world has always been a deep-seated melancholy that she brings out effectively here.

All in all, it’s as if the watery concoction of before has been distilled into a potent musical treacle--richer in atmosphere, sharper, artistically decisive and intoxicating.

Rap Album One breaks away from rap conventions in an effortless manner.

A record that pushes a catholic range of sounds through filter after filter, and turns out something at once smudgy and beautiful.

Aerotropolis manages to navigate its concept without being crushed by the weight of it, and is a thoroughly enjoyable LP that--perhaps like Ikonika herself--will only mature with time.

Possibly, some will leave Luminous disappointed that The Horrors haven’t pulled off another quantum leap, but by slowing down and bedding into their sound, they’ve made a record that feels both studied and instinctual, elevated and elemental, and that’s no mean feat.

This is a fine collection of songs and although there is nothing here to dispel the feeling that even if this is no masterpiece, that doesn't mean that Ranaldo won't be producing one sometime in the near future.

It succeeds as an exploration of bodies, but more specifically, of the kinds of tension created by the dichotomies between them and within them, throughout an intimately crafted pop record that treads that careful line between wallowing and pleasure in the way that all the very best pop records do.

To praise To Rococo Rot can be to undersell them; their most attractive qualities, their sense of minimalism and simplicity and concision, are hardly the sort of things you bellow from rooftops. And yet, it works, and beautifully.

While Barrow and Salisbury have painted a forbidding picture of the overall future, their own futures as producers with an ever-expanding, consistent repertoire looks assured.

Ultimately, Beauty Behind the Madness is a heftier House of Balloons. Its weight is carried in the access to better production and drugs, and what the album truly accomplishes is proving that The Weeknd has never been wretched.

These four tracks may cry out for proper soundsystems and bear many of dance music’s hallmarks, but their lengths (they add up to nearly half an hour), discordant layering and meandering structures render them more suited to body listening than the dancefloor.

Drums are present, but they often function as little more than pensive timekeepers. All the better to frame those tunes – artful, delicate things, rarely saying more or less than they need to.

Skillfully and bewitchingly arranged, its neatest trick is in the way it enfolds so many distinct personalities into Glasper's own vision, his music always complementing their voices without ever being dominated by them.

While a large portion of the LP sounds like a continuation of his earlier work this year, these tracks point optimistically towards something a little different once again, while still managing to fit under that increasingly hard-to-define Bambounou umbrella.

Herndon is quite unique, using her instrument to engage in a constant dialogue with her immediate environment in such a way that makes conventional divisions --between the natural and the synthetic, or between the everyday and the extraordinary--seem dated.

In short, this album holds together even better than On a Mission, and Katy B is still our best pop star.

As a psychological snapshot of DOOM's current inbetween-ness, it's certainly a fascinating listen. But, interesting as it is, it's a mite too spiritless to be considered a classic DOOM record.

With Ultraviolence, Lana Del Rey remains a singular figure in music, sounding (and addressing the idea of authenticity) like no one else.

The result leaves the listener with less of a sense of control and more of an experience controlled by someone who knows exactly what they are doing.

Whereas 2009′s Missing Chairs carried a prissy frivolity in its floridness, Piramida is a noble, self-possessed creation; a masterclass in considered arrangement.

When the whole thing drops back to its kickdrum-hi-hat backbone in the closing minute, it’s as stringent, and as satisfying, as any techno moment of recent times.

On paper Vapor City looked like Stewart’s descent into a sump of his own pompousness; in reality it’s anything but.

The Soul of All Natural Things realises her intent wonderfully, its gorgeously crafted pastoral songs a gentle invocation to inner peace.

As far as historic compilations go, this is an undeniable belter, successfully capturing music with a very particular energy worth celebrating.

An uncharacteristically difficult end to a record that’s not quite a paradigm smasher, but a must-hear for anyone who likes their hip-hop weird and with teeth.