Debut albums often set the bar high. How are you going to top a Psychocandy or a Piper At The Gates of Dawn? The answer is, not easily and, with rare exceptions, not at once. All those ideas that had been growing forever splurge out in those first excited studio sessions, years of passion and imagination explode into the open and the thrill carries to the listener.

Gonjasufi, AKA Sumach Ecks (b 1978) was raised in San Diego by a Mexican mother and an American-Ethiopian father. His musical ability first came to more than local prominence when he appeared on the Flying Lotus album Los Angeles in 2008. His own debut album, A Sufi and a Killer, produced by Flying Lotus, Gaslamp Killer and Mainframe, appeared in 2010.

It's become a fairly common trope for herbally enhanced rappers to hype up their individuality by referring to themselves as an “alien”, but with Wiley you could believe it. In “Can I Get a Taxi”, the odd extended skit that forms the centrepiece of this album, he inhabits various London archetypes – the yardie, the cockney wideboy, the posh bloke – but while his accents are hilarious, it all feels strange, curious, like a child poking at creatures in a rockpool, and his ever-wayward stream of thought keeps veering off course.

I’m a fan of a child-like musical sub-genre which some call toytronica. It’s the sound of retro-futuristic electronic music mashing into playroom sounds, sometimes using actual gimmicky children’s toy instruments. In its broadest definition, it could take in anything from the bizarre surrealist Moog cheese of easy listening doyen Klaus Wunderlich to the more outré outings from Warp Records acts such as Plone, although possibly the ever best album in this vein is Anglo-Norwegian duo Toy’s self-titled 2006 debut on Smalltown Supersound.

Tunng are not as kooky as they might appear. Yes there is a preponderance of beards in their extensive lineup, and a rather byzantine tale to how that lineup has evolved over the years. And yes, their songs include bone percussion, electronic glitches, melodicas, clarinets, snippets of sampled beat poetry, collaborations with Saharan desert musicians and lyrics from the perspective of a dead man forgiving the brother that killed him (“Jenny Again”). OK, they're a bit kooky.

Even in a bumper year for Xmas albums there comes a point where you really don’t “wish it could be Xmas every day”. After the third helping of turkey, and feeling like a cracker that has been well and truly pulled, it’s only natural to long for a glimpse of summer. Metronomy’s third album is just that. A long, hazy, coming-of-age summer on the Devon coastline.

If 2011 was the year when dance music's natural tendency to fragmentation was taken to extremes, this album was the one that bound those fragments together into one demented but scintillating vision. Russell Whyte – Rustie – comes from a very particularly Scottish club scene that is the perfect antidote to the idea that musical connoisseurship means nerdiness.

I almost feel duty bound to make a declaration of interest here. I have done several pieces of paid writing for the Red Bull Music Academy, including a piece of course material for this year's Academy, and a few days ago I went to Madrid to see the Academy for the first time on their tab.

Stockhausen’s Gesang der Jünglinge (Song of the Youths), composed in 1956, is, in many ways, the mother of all electronic music. I can remember discovering it in the 1960s, before I had acquired my first pair of Koss headphones, lying on the floor, strategically placed between two speakers, my ears opened by the copious ingestion of some red Lebanese. The combination of electronically treated live voices with purely synthetic sounds, so much a commonplace today, was then strikingly new.

The title Rising Doom hints that the second album from 24-year-old Paris-based Paul Régimbeau may not have much in common with the output of his fellow countryman and electronic dance music producer David Guetta. “Where Them Girls At?” this is not. The French are famed for their cheese but even fans of Roquefort have been known to balk at Guetta’s hideous amalgam of the least likeable club sounds of the last 20 years. Guetta’s is, unfortunately, the blueprint that rising commercial producers must ape, especially now the American market has opened to them.