(No Pussyfooting) (1973)

I don't have to think very long or hard about my favorite collaboration between Brian Eno and Robert Fripp—I like all of them, but this first has always been special, the one that most stood out to me, and by a good margin, for its ability to cohere the vaporous trails and impulses of ambient music into something textural and dense with presence, for Robert Fripp's guitar-playing which is supernaturally beautiful or maybe that's the ethereal tone I'm catching, and for sounding so good every time I play it. It's not that often, admittedly, and then I'm likely as not to make the beeline for Terry Riley first. But the omnipresent ghost that attends nearly all of Eno's work, the one that dictated the Oblique Strategies deck that he always seems to manage so skillfully, is vividly alive and well here, moving through every passage and decision—how, I can't say exactly. That's part of the mystery of it, the ghost equally present here as much as he (or it) is there on "Always Crashing in the Same Car," on "Baby's on Fire," on "1/1" of Music for Airports—maybe even more so. I've said elsewhere and perhaps ad nauseam by this point that I think Eno's greatest skill is the one that is perhaps least visible: a sensitivity and unique knack that he brings to the art of collaboration, somehow finding ways to draw the inner Eno out of all his accomplices, which is there almost incidentally practically for the sake of continuity alone. He is able to make projects somehow greater than the sum of their parts, reliably. In the immediate aftermath of King Crimson's heyday this could hardly have been what fans of Robert Fripp were prepared for, yet it's him all right: lyrical, constrained, plunged into a lush aural ecosystem that complements his nuances down to the tendrils. It's very fine, lovely, patient, beguiling work, and I mean on the part of both of them equally. This is made with love, as the giddy cook says emerging from the kitchen. It's palpable, even. A masterpiece of smoldering affect. And something that is capable of suiting every mood.

The Roches (1979)

Though both connections intrigued me, I came across this more by way of Robert Fripp, who produces, than by way of Paul Simon, who earlier had served unofficially as mentor in the careers of these sisters out of Park Ridge, New Jersey. Fripp actually applies an exceedingly light touch—except for a few lovely licks of guitar here and there, most notably on the best song, "Hammond Song," you would never guess the debt to Gurdjieff, let alone King Crimson. Instead, Maggie and Terre and Suzzy (rhymes with "fuzzy") formally introduce themselves on the first track here, "We," outlining a few points of their histories and their agenda more generally ("We don't give out our ages / And we don't give out our phone numbers ... Guess which two of us made a record / Guess what the other one did instead ... We spell our last name R-O-C-H-E"). As with nearly everything here it's mostly a cappella with minimal accompaniment, veers dangerously close to precious, but remains stalwart and charming, mostly because they're so smart and funny about what they're doing. Also because they are imperfect—the harmonies are gorgeous, but they don't always hit the notes. Topics under consideration: abandoning friendship for marriage, crawling back to a day job, ill-advised affairs with married men, losing one's way, finding it again, and getting off work. Born 10 or 15 years too late for the Greenwich Village folk revival of the early '60s (hard to be precise when they won't give out their ages), they nevertheless soldier on with admirable pluck. This first album by all three (guess which two of them made a record, guess what the other one did instead) is easily my favorite and only sounds better all the time. I lived with it recently for most of two weeks and found myself continually experiencing fragments of their melodies and turns of phrase wafting through my head. It's true that it sent me pleasantly back to 1979, when I first got to know this album, but it wasn't just the nostalgia putting a spring in my step. In fact, if I had managed to get to this a little quicker, "Hammond Song," which is more toward the poignant end of their spectrum, would probably have found a home somewhere on my current countdown. The least I can do is offer a chance to hear what it sounds like.

"Heroes" (1977)

With this, his second release of 1977, it became evident how good Berlin and Brian Eno were turning out to be for David Bowie. Arguably the weakest of the Germany-based trilogy, with a meandering, often unfocused second side of experimental soundscapes, and a not wholly stellar first side of essays at the pop song, somehow none of those points matter. Operating on pure instinct, the whole here simply transcends the sum of its parts and it's hard to be much more articulate about it than that. "Beauty and the Beast" is a perfectly overwrought confection that sets the tone for the first side; ditto "V-2 Schneider" for the second; and whoever thought of hauling in Robert Fripp (drunk, according to some reports) for guitar honors on the title song – itself a perfectly overwrought confection – deserves a medal. As does Fripp. As do Bowie and Eno. So medals all around – always appropriate for "heroes." Don't miss the prescience of the album closer, "The Secret Life of Arabia."