Start with the admission, because the label does: Onyx is an AI artist. Words, arrangements, mixing decisions and creative direction are human; the voice and the visuals are generated. Novaix stamps this on every release, and the honesty clears the air. Nobody is being fooled, so the question becomes whether the music is any good. On *CLOSE*, it is better than good. It is the most coherent debut statement from a synthetic performer so far, and it would be a sharp record whatever its provenance.

There is a particular kind of pop song that arrives dressed as a good time and turns out to be a confession. The best of them smuggle the ache in past the bouncers, under a strobe light, and you only notice you've been emotionally ambushed when the lights come up and your mascara has gone somewhere it shouldn't. "Tell Me," the new single from Phoenix's GlowDriver, belongs to that noble and slightly devious tradition.

Pop has always known that the dancefloor is the best place to cry. New Order knew it, the Pet Shop Boys built a career on it, and Robyn made it an emotional philosophy. On *Relabel*, her second album, Southampton's Kat Button joins that lineage with ten tracks that are danceable and disarmingly honest. Very little EDM has attempted what she does here, and the record is better for it.

Trieste sits at the hinge between the Adriatic and the Alps, a city built on the friction of two temperaments, and it seems fitting that a producer raised on that coastline should make a record as torn — productively, gorgeously torn — between restraint and grandeur as TIDELINE. diegoista has spent the past few years quietly assembling a reputation as one of melodic house's more thoughtful stylists, the kind of artist who treats a synth pad the way a novelist treats a semicolon: sparingly, and only when the pause genuinely earns its keep. Twelve tracks in, TIDELINE confirms it. This is a producer who has stopped asking what a club wants and started asking what a memory sounds like.

Some records announce themselves with a fanfare. "Paragliding" simply opens the door and lets the wind do the talking — and what a gust it turns out to be. The Hague's Ronald Hage, eighteen releases deep into a career built on Tuesday-night studio sessions rather than industry showcases, has produced a track that feels less like a calculated bid for the festival circuit and more like the natural exhale of someone who genuinely cannot stop making this stuff.

Kim Cameron has done something delightfully daft and completely disarming: she has built a children's dance album around the ghosts of modern art. *Who Drew That?* takes Dalí, Picasso, Matisse, Monet, Schulz, Chuck Jones, the graffiti pioneer Barbara 62, and the painter-survivor Gershon Iskowitz, and drags them all onto a sweaty, glow-stick-lit dancefloor built for toddlers and their exhausted parents. It sounds like a fever dream cooked up by a music supervisor who'd spent too long in a gallery gift shop. It also, somehow, works beautifully.

Manga-eyed and beat-hungry, "New Age Girl" arrives with the swagger of a band that knows precisely what it wants to be and refuses to apologise for it. This is the sound of two producers colliding at speed — SIR-VERE's songwriting instincts crashing into Vodzilla's electronic architecture — and somehow the wreckage comes out gorgeous.

There's a particular strain of house music that understands the difference between euphoria and noise, and VORALYS has clearly done the homework. Midnight Drive arrives less like a single and more like a mood you didn't know you'd been missing since the last proper summer road trip — the kind soundtracked by a car stereo, a horizon, and nothing much to prove.

Trance, as a genre, has spent the better part of two decades oscillating between cathedral-sized euphoria and cheap, synthetic filler, and it takes a producer of genuine instinct to remember that the two are not the same thing. Eric Kupper remembers. His reworking of "Do You Feel It" doesn't merely speed up Starry Venus's original and bolt on a kick drum; it excavates the song, finds the pulse buried beneath its cinematic origins, and lets that pulse do the talking.

Manchester has a habit of producing sound that refuses to sit still, and Romeo Saints belongs squarely inside that lineage. "Juju Vibes" arrives less as a single than as a small campaign of reclamation, a siege on despair conducted with synthesizers instead of cannon fire. The producer, credited under the full theatrical weight of Romeo Monroe Saints, has built something that behaves like architecture: load-bearing basslines, cathedral-height synth stabs, a structure engineered to hold weight without buckling.