Antonius Rex
Neque Semper Arcum Tendit Rex

Year of Demons 1974: Antonio Bartoccetti tries again. After the commercial flop of the works released under the Jacula name, the dark-progressive of the award-winning Bartoccetti/Norton duo finds a new formidable incarnation: Antonius Rex is the new face that relaunches the art of Magus Antonio, assisted and sponsored by Sir Albert Goodman, an English landowner passionate about the occult and owner of the independent label Darkness, for which this "Neque Semper Arcum Tendit Rex" originally was released.

Decidedly dark and disturbing (terrifying when considering the musical landscape of the time), "Neque Semper Arcum..." is a magnetic, cursed album, shrouded in mystery and surrounded by unclear occurrences. Albert Goodman, for example, would die under mysterious circumstances a few years later, while the Romanian medium Giulio Tasnad claimed to have had a close encounter with the Evil One on a Friday night while listening to the album, having wisely arranged eight of the magic symbols from the album cover on a table and read backwards the lyrics of "Devil's Letter", a cardinal episode of the work: an invocation (one of the first, if not the first, in rock history) performed by Goodman himself, launched in the evocative reading of a 1624 letter by the occultist Asmodeus.

Fortunately, beyond its alleged magical properties, "Neque Semper Arcum..." can boast excellent musical content. And it is the music, in fact, that is the real magic of this album, one of the highest manifestations of Magus Antonio's art. Firstly, the guitar returns with force (let us remember that in the previous "Tardo Pede in Magiam Versus" the gloomy evolutions of Charles Tiring's organ dominated): "Neque Semper Arcum..." is to date the most violent album ever produced by the band (in fact, from the following works, their sound would lean towards more experimental shores).

Dominating is Bartoccetti's powerful guitar talent, never so prolific with riffs and insights as in these six observations: the rocky Sabbath-like visions of the guitar, amidst majestic doom litanies, imposing metallic rides, and blistering solos, make this album a black jewel of compact esoteric prog, continually traversed by horrific jolts. Providential is Norton’s icy organ, which menacingly supports and accompanies the guitar plots of her partner. Goodman’s sparse hand percussion, finally, solemnly punctuates the unpredictable evolutions of this work, which seems more like a true mystical rite than a rock album.

What amazes, however, is not the musicians’ enviable technical prowess, nor the undeniable intelligence of the constructions present here, but rather the band’s unique ability to drastically distance itself from the moods of its time, to craft a work out of its own time: a work which, although undeniably seventies in sound, continues to amaze today with its originality, its ability to anticipate and place itself outside and above any comparison. A comparison denied even with the same Black Sabbath, fathers and champions of seventies doom (and an undeniable influence for Bartoccetti, along with the hallucinatory poetics of Van Der Graaf Generator): precisely in the reiteration of hammering riffs, in a context absolutely devoid of blues influences, easy rock temptations and freak reminiscences inherited from the sixties (which continued to smear the performances of much more acclaimed colleagues across the English Channel), lies Bartoccetti's guitar revolution, an unrecognized prophet of the most authentic heavy metal.

The opener "Neque Semper Arcum" starts with Norton's majestic organ, over which Magus Antonio’s evocative speech emerges: an "j'accuse," his, directed at a modern world that has renounced all forms of spiritual depth. A fiery speech against those "destined to worship gold and sex," who "own ivory villas with servants, but without doors," who "can do nothing but pay every yes," who "want to understand the depth of the lake while standing on the shore." An emotional climax finds its outlet midway through the piece, when all falls silent except for the wind, and Bartoccetti’s cavernous voice solemnly recites: "Far away, where the spirit of the wind wanders, to those who have spoken, the blade of Fate has cut their tongues; now, their bodies fatally sway on the rope of the cypresses; now, my guitar will play for them," and shaking us is a guitar that couldn’t be more brazen, a powerful riff that in an instant flings us from the shadows of a threatening gothic world to the suffocating dust of a magnificent metal sabbat. Thus begins an overwhelming ride where rocky riffs duet with dissonant organ themes: a sonic spiral that is magical, sounding like an unequivocal invocation (remembering that Bartoccetti graduated in philosophy with a thesis titled as a program: "The Evocative Powers of the Guitar"!).

The organ of "Pactus" is a worthy continuation of the grim tones of the opening piece: the crusade against modernity, against the harmful influence and power of the media, of television, persists (sociological references are continuous in this work that, behind the supernatural veil, is revealed to be firmly tied to social and environmental issues). In the finale, accompanied by calm hand percussion, one can also sample the guitarist's melodic talent, who engages in an elegant solo with soft jazz overtones.

"In Hoc Signo Vinces" and "Non Fiat Voluntas Tua" return to portray, with violence and paranoid obsessiveness (difficult in those years to find an equally mad and deviant rock incarnation), the usual inquisition scenarios. The first is an instrumental track reminiscent of the legendary "Triumphatus Sad," one of the very first renditions of heavy metal in the strict sense (found on Jacula's first album "In Cauda Semper Stat Venenum," from 1969!). The second is again spurred on by Bartoccetti's thunderous accusations, and with it, the album proceeds filled with massive guitar onslaughts: guitar blows that, devoid of rhythmic elements, remain suspended in the void, menacing, intangible, hypnotic. Caressed, accompanied, dematerialized by Norton's morbid organ.

This brings us to the famous "Devil's Letter", a horrific excursion into non-musical territories, where Bartoccetti’s guitar is quieted and what dominates are rather silences, creaks, footsteps, gloomy Gregorian counterpoints, and Goodman's invocation. Of the evocative power (in every sense) of the piece, nothing more remains to be said, as mentioned in the opening.

The work concludes with the most violent episode of the set, the formidable "Aquila Non Capit Muscas", the last warning addressed to the "small failed man" mercilessly targeted throughout the duration of the record. Opened by dark piano tolls and torn by sadistic humors, the piece leads us into the deepest dungeons of the castle, in a climate of eternal tortures, and closes magnificently with a pressing gothic march that we could call a thrash metal ante litteram. A passage from "Raining Blood" by Slayer comes to mind, not coincidentally, just to highlight the anticipatory power of Bartoccetti's guitar technique and at the same time the unprecedented violence with which the forward-thinking guitarist knew how to scorch the ears of the unfortunate of the time (accustomed to quite different standards of violence).

So, lovers of our prog: we are faced with a creature as unique as it is rare, both in Italy and globally, both yesterday and today (with decade-long pauses, the activity of the band from Marche continues up to our days, think of the very recent "Switch on Dark"). To ignore Antonius Rex and more generally Antonio Bartoccetti’s talent, with a sneer and a sterile snobbery worth a dime, is the greatest sin a true music connoisseur could commit. Because, folks, we are talking about real music here!