ALEX MAGUS

Originally only a temporary hire to fill the mohair boots of the M.I.A. Coco LeBree on the 1974 tour, Alex Magus, with his esoteric interests and deceptively freeform creative approach, became an important force in TGQ’s late 70’s direction. During this period rabid fans obsessively studied each album, listening as much for the complexly layered production and labyrinthine song compositions as for the secret archaic knowledge allegedly encoded in the music.

Alex was often credited as the instrumental force behind the band’s pioneering of textural, ambient sounds. And by informing the lyrical subject matter with his deep immersion in controversial historical theory, was also (according to obsessive fan theories) believed to be the architect of the so-christened “Magus Map” — a supposed series of clues, spread throughout the 12 albums, which act as a kind of key to access the vast knowledge of ancient civilizations.

Alex disappeared on a climbing expedition near the Nathu La mountain pass in the Himalayas, August 4th 1980. Since then the band have continued to pay 20% of royalties earned from those albums into an account kept for Alex — who, during the past 20 years, has yet to be declared dead in absentia.

The Cipher in the Circuit

Officially? Originally only a stopgap — a hotshot hired gun with an impressive head of hair, a dubious pedigree and a knack for Moog settings no one else could remember come morning. Hired to fill the astral booties of the disenchanted Coco LeBree during the ’75 tour, Alex Magus was supposed to be temporary, like a minor planetary retrograde, or a case of pinkeye.

But those who were there — roadies, backup singers, tape operators, a couple of frightened journalists — they tell another story.

The story of a man who arrived with no reliable past, no discernible origin, and a faint scent of temple incense clinging to his vest. A man who carried an annotated Agrippa in one hand and a first pressing of Coven’s WITCHCRAFT in the other. A man who spoke fluent Welsh when drunk, and claimed that Crowley was a frustrated Disney.

What started as a fill-in gig became a rite of transformation. Under the influence of Magus’s aura, The Get Quick didn’t just modify their sound — they changed density. Embarking on an inspired run as dense as it was prolific. Songs began to unfold like puzzle boxes. Lyrics looped back into themselves. Albums were released with track timings that matched the gematria of forgotten gods. The band stopped performing under full moons. Studio sessions began at 3:33 a.m. sharp.

Fans, already prone to obsession, crossed the threshold into mania. Secret societies formed via word of mouth, newsletter not to be trusted. Vinyl was spun backwards in candle-lit attics. Layers of TGQ production were dissected with oscilloscope and grimoire alike. Some swore their 1977 LP PENDULUM induced waking visions of ancient temples and impossible machinery.

And at the core of it all: The Magus Map.

Allegedly encoded across eleven albums, The Map is said to be a cryptographic relay of sacred knowledge — an alchemical breadcrumb trail pointing to the primal civilization before civilization. To the One True Grid — hidden beneath a 4D jungle gym of false ones. References to Atlantis, Gobekli Tepe, Vril energy, and satellite codes from the Montauk Project were all traced back to liner note non sequiturs, oblique vocals, grafted scales, odd time signatures, even the (semi-)silent gaps between tracks.

Did it add up to anything? Depends who you ask. But the believers are out there — and they do not blink.

And then — as if continuing a trend — the vanishing act.

August 4th, 1980. Nathu La mountain pass, Himalayas. Official story: Magus was climbing alone. Lost in a storm. Body never recovered.

But others speak of a ritual pilgrimage, a final step in a lifelong initiation. One eyewitness — a Sherpa who later refused to speak publicly — claimed to see a ring of fire spiral upward into the clouds, and reported a voice, not quite human, whispering spells through the snow.

Since that day, Alex Magus has remained in absentia but not forgotten — or abandoned. The Get Quick, in a show of either loyalty or superstition (or both), continue to deposit 20% of all relevant royalties into an untouched account bearing his name. His signature hasn’t been used. His passport remains flagged. His mirror, recovered from a backstage green room in 1978, refuses to reflect whom it does not recognize.

Dead? Doubtful.

Ascended? Perhaps.

Or maybe — just maybe — we never really had the right to have him here in the first place.

The Cipher in the Circuit. The One Who Knew Too Soon.

— Mark Question, 2007