Co-written and produced by David Bowie, Iggy Pop’s “Baby” is a sketch. It’s drum-less and tight — a model of almost James M. Cain-like restraint. No less direct than the violent vamps for which the Stooges were infamous, this lover’s lament (a warning in mourning) is, lyrically and melodically, richer than anything the Ig had done up to that point. From deep inside a bombed-out factory in Berlin, he and Bowie forge a synth classic of lean forbearance. The demo feel propels the song, as will your awareness of Iggy’s past: Gone is the foul fun that made him (and the other Stooges) crash. In its place is a ghostly croon. Hanging his head, Ig holds his babe close. They walk the street of chance, “where the chances are always slim or none/and the intentions unjust.” He doesn’t want to do this (he’s been down that road before), but he stays with her. He knows they’ll lose.