Mark Wirtz – ‘Dream, Dream, Dream’ The Anthology
Mark Wirtz – the less cool Kim Fowley, has been afforded an almost mystical and mythical status over the years. A shadow with an aura that floated around blessing countless acts with pop holy water and then disappearing to do more good deeds elsewhere. But is the noggin behind ‘Grocer Jack’ really all that? God knows, if you haven’t worked it out after listening to this huge 5-disc, 131-track box-set, you’ll never know.
Born in Strasbourg in 1943, Wirtz took the almost inevitable art college route to music with a dash of drama school thrown in for good measure when he moved across to London. Absolutely in the right place at the right time, he somehow made himself available to Marlene Dietrich as a musical director and arranger, but it was as the puppet master for significantly less well-known acts that he became celebrated for, with an extra line in recording his own work under various pseudonyms a welcome bonus.
So proficient was Wirtz that he became an in-house producer at EMI at the height of The Beatles and Pink Floyd‘s voyages to the unknown, though his talents were actually sprinkled over lesser beings – Keith West; Tomorrow; Kippington Lodge; The Sweetshop; Caroline Munro. Yes, that one. Many of these appear on Disc One, alongside the likes of Peanut (not a name singer Katie Kissoon stuck to – she later became much in demand as a backing singer for Eric Clapton, Roger Waters, Elton John and even Robbie Williams – on reflection, maybe remaining as Peanut would’ve been preferable for everyone).
But here’s the thing. I’m not actually sure it’s everything people would have you believe it is. Elegant; refined; deft; extravagant – it’s all of these in abundance. It’s also flaccid; soulless; gruesomely florid. It is music that has had so many layers of varnish applied that you can almost choke on the fumes listening to it. Quieter pieces have the stomach-churning gloating to camera of Richard Clayderman; the more exciting pieces have the oomph of James Last gigs (not insignificant, I hasten to add but with a cod-enjoyment – once removed from visceral fun). There are, of course, huge echos to Brian Wilson‘s arrangements but there’s none of the threat of things bubbling over into frenzy and none of the idiosyncrasies to twist your ear and leave you in communion with greatness.
Munro, perched on a pop conveyor belt, is safely strapped in with so much going on that both song and performance become lost beneath a sea of quasi-orchestral squall. Wirtz’s own ‘A Touch of Velvet – A Sting of Brass’ (recorded under the moniker The Mood Mosaic) sounds like a cornucopia of TV themes exploding – so much so that it was indeed used for various TV shows, most notably ‘The Beat Club’. It feels as though it’s been written to order by a committee, ELO‘s ‘Don’t Bring Me Down’ with a colourful feather duster up its arse. Even Tomorrow sound too overblown to trip out to – a cover of ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’ feels lumpen; joyless; too self-aware. And so on.
Of course, that’s barely touching the edges of this set. The fabled ‘Teenage Opera’ is given as much coverage as you’d expect given the actual lack of stuff recorded for the project. I still find it almost upsettingly cloying and foul, listening again after many years avoiding it. It seems like it would have been much easier to sit farting in a bath with a tuba than rope in half of London to record it.
Discs 2 and 3 feature oodles of songs written and produced by Wirtz for others. It might be something of a Wizard of Oz reveal to point out that the fact that all of them achieved sod all. In spite of Wirtz or because of, do you think The Kippington Lodge (later to be pub grumblers Brinsley Schwarz), Zion De Gallier (actual name – Douglas Ord. Brilliant!), Miki Antony, Astronaut Alan & The Planets (I didn’t even make the last one up), all had to reinvent themselves after recording with him?
We’re also treated to Wirtz’s instrumental work, cover versions (his version of ‘Aquarius’ is reprehensible, though I only pick on that track at random), remasters of his two solo albums, and a disc of outtakes, interviews and remixes. As always, stunningly packaged by Cherry Red and with copious notes, badges and baubles. Shame about the music.
Daz Lawrence