Its 13 tracks are more versatile in lyrical depth and vocal flow than before and, when added to his trademark intensity, are proof that Mykki's moved to the next level.

Whether it’s in the tribal drums, sensual vocals or huge range of instruments, you’re unlikely to hear a more diverse collection of music this year.

It’s hugely fun and definitely full of Human Energy, ensuring that it’s an album well-named.

As a producer, Barratt is the equal of anyone working today, but what’s most amazing is that even after 30-plus years, he still seems to be as connected with the magic of dancefloor moments as he ever was.

Bolder and with increased confidence, I Remember sounds more succinct and complete than 2013 debut ‘Body Music’.

Maier’s urbane persona is as funny, funky and disquieting as ever, and this album is a righteously fresh addition to their catalogue.

Far from being austere, though, the cavernous riffs of ‘November’ or undulating synth pulses of ‘Phoenicia’ are like a warm blanket of comforting sound, while more direct and urgent Joy Division-esque kickers like ‘Complicated’ lurk elsewhere.

‘Love Sick’ is filled with sensual longing and ‘Mind Games’ screams out anger over crashing synths. ‘Trainwreck’, meanwhile, is an instant banger with Banks’ aggressive lyrics structured around trap-infused production. Elsewhere, though, soul-baring ballad ‘Mother Earth’ and stripped-back closer ‘To The Hilt’ are more easily forgotten.

As expected, the new offering from Oizo is a revelation--no-one quite does it like him. Now, with the help of his friends, he’s created another nigh-on masterpiece.

Patten’s third release is a whistle-stop tour of the UK’s hardcore continuum, never pausing long enough to get bored.

Boy King is intrusive, abrasive and in-your-face--but that’s no criticism: one can imagine lads properly belting out ‘Big Cat’ and ‘Alpha Female’ at live shows.

All of the trademark Marconi-isms are here, but they’re now emboldened by broader musical strokes.

It takes us back to the late 00s, when the likes of Martyn, Sepalcure and Joy Orbison were bringing lushness and melody to (post) dubstep--and that’s no bad place to be at all.

Nobody else sounds like them right now.

The aural familiarity of tracks such as ‘Anyware’, with its warp-speed cellphone melodies, imbibes Motion Graphics with warmth and, above all, joy.

This is the record Zomby’s always promised to make, and it’s everything we could have hoped for.

Even if you’re not spiritually inclined, the music is still proper techno: chuggy in some places and mystical in others, but always total class.

The man who won a BAFTA for his soundtrack to Broadchurch stitches his own sombre and beatless exclusives into rainy, greyscale pop, intimate ambient and frosty bass like it ain’t no thing beautiful.

An energetic, main-room mix that touches on many styles.

The whole album is perfectly paced, with hypnotic grooves and simple songwriting: density and space are constantly played off each other, helping to create something that should be taken in as a whole. It’s been well worth the wait.

This is a complex and endlessly enjoyable record.

Sometimes the album’s pacing drifts a little, but that’s a price worth paying for being taken to such mysterious places.

Ibifornia is a lush, exotic album with star-studded collabs which sounds as inspired by the jungle as it is by the dancefloor.

Recorded in Sydney, New York and California, ‘Faraway Reach’ bursts with sun-soaked vibes.

It’s a twilight dream of a record that’s uncompromisingly odd but absolutely direct, and addictive from first listen. The Invisible have made the album of the summer.

It’s just him, a piano and a bunch of songs (some original, some standards), and they feel so raw that listening to them borders on the uncomfortable.

Written in her producer’s garden shed rather than the confines of a studio, Laura Mvula sounds confident and free throughout her second album.

Trippy instrumental ‘Traanc’ is probably the most quintessential Audion track, while ‘Destroyer’ and ‘Sucker’ scream Circoloco 2016 until their production lungs run out of steam.