Was Crowley the Antichrist?

By dance-music producer Aron Paramor

Jarvis Cocker of the band Pulp once commented that he thought that Jesus Christ was crucified at 33 because, when we reach that age, life is a great disappointment as we come to terms with the fact that we are not going to be the next Jesus and change the world. Aleister Crowley chose a different path, claiming that he was the Antichrist, the 'great beast'. To this day, for many he is still 'the wickedest man in the world'.

Devil or deviant?

The press of the day used Crowley's devil image, bi-sexual practices and drug experiments as a blueprint for future character assassinations, and it sold newspapers. Far from denying the accusations, he sometimes went further and added to the outcry, shrugging his shoulders with indifference but secretly rubbing his hands with glee. To him, any publicity was good publicity.

It is the Devil image that first hooks people: 'I am the beast 666.' It's an outrageous claim, but also an attractive one. We prefer the gangster to the do-gooder in films such as Scarface and Goodfellas. We take delight in seeing people behave with a style and ruthlessness that we can dream of, but would never dare to imitate. Crowley was such a man, living his life by his own moral code.

Guru or addict?

If we strip away all the myths about Crowley, we are left with a man who seems to be nothing more than a second-rate underground guru, who tried to set up his spiritual college in Sicily and failed. He was a man who died addicted to heroin (ending up by taking enough in a single dose to kill a room full of people) – no triumph of the will here, heroin seemed the more powerful. A dire warning to us all about that particular drug.

Yet many reduce him further and say that if he lived now, hardly any of his exploits, his taboo-breaking, would be particularly outrageous. Sexual excesses are more tolerated and if you go to any house nightclub you can to see an entire business based on the drug Ecstasy. But to say that in today's world, Crowley's achievements would be unimpressive fails to take into account his dynamic intellect, drive and acidic humour. If he had been born today, he might have been a DJ pioneering the early rave and E scene – as subversive and fresh as the Egyptian mysteries were to young Victorians.

Hip idol or sad old man?

Today the occult is not really as hip as it was in the 1960s, when the satanic Rolling Stones, psychedelic Beatles and ground-breaking Kenneth Anger films spread the message of 'Do what thou wilt'. It was dark and dangerous plugging into the free love and drug explosion of the time. Now, apart from a few underground organisations, the occult seems to attract weak people in search of power.

I remember the notoriety that studying the Great Beast at 17 gave me: it filled the a gap in my personality at the time and I wanted to appear more mysterious and a little darker than everyone else. Now I see that, in the United States, the Goths, the metal fans and the clown idols like Marilyn Manson are a far cry from Crowley's idea that magick will liberate the individual. Instead, the individual is hidden under a uniform of black clothes, assorted rings, pendants and black eye liner.

The final image of Crowley as an old man in Hastings proves that the indignity of old age gets us all the end. Like an aged movie idol, once an object of infinite desire, now he was the opposite. Had Crowley died young, like James Dean or Jim Morrison, he would have avoided the fingers of critics pointing at an old man in a grubby boarding house, impotent, addicted to drugs and with failing mental powers. Crowley was flesh and blood, and in many ways his failings, his openness and his need for more extreme activity, make him human and admirably honest.

Crowley will always remain an anti-hero who is unacceptable to the mainstream. Sadly, his message has become blurred and misinterpreted: 'Do what thou wilt' means find your reason for being and pursue it with a vengeance. It does not mean just doing whatever you want all the time.

Monster or humorist?

In defence of this old man living out his last days, it should be pointed out that far from having a failing intellect, he was still able to beat people at chess, two at a time, visualising each chess board in his head. Crowley also maintained his wicked sense of humour, causing a friend to almost vomit as he looked through the toilet keyhole to see Crowley inject heroin – knowing he is being watched, Crowley squeals like a stuck pig. His bravado and sense of humour coloured his life and still makes us guffaw out loud. Once fobbed off and left waiting in the lobby of a rather snooty gentleman, Crowley craps on the man's carpet and leaves (his excrement is holy of course). Rock star behaviour before any rock stars existed.

Had the old Crowley become spiritually enlightened? I think his gate-crashing attitude was to storm the gates of heaven, like a pirate monk swashbuckling his way through religion to find the truth and deliver what he found, slashing away the bullshit. For Crowley, it had been a path full of mistakes and pitfalls.

To the people who knew him and who suffered his monstrous ego, he was a bully, pushing them further and further on his mission to pursue the Great Work and further his reputation as a master in his field. As a consequence, many people snapped, became burnt out and left. But he had shown them the limits of their being and life without him must have been dull.

Egoist or trailblazer?

One last paradox: the basic desire to leave a mark is a powerful one. For an ego of Crowley's size – with his need to be recognised and be the centre of attention – you would have thought that he would set up a shrine for his followers and the world to visit. Yet, at his request, he was cremated and his ashes were scattered in the wind, leaving no trace. I believe that Crowley knew that the true followers of his ideas would be honest, liberated and determined people who were able to live their lives as individuals, blazing their own personal trail without any need of Crowley himself.

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