This review was originally written for MetalIreland (www.metalireland.com) and appears here in its unedited form. You can visit with curiosity and peruse with incredulity the Unhinged website at www.unhinged.me.uk and this essential hard backed collection is available there directly.
There really was no questioning or second-guessing, I saw the announcement, I clicked, I knew something truly special was making its way towards me. I deem it impossible that any fan of Irish heavy metal be not also an admirer of at least one piece of art by Paul McCarroll, the normal world designation of the creative genius known as Unhinged, though his reputation among most will tend mostly to the macabre, his catalogue yields a surprising eclecticism, superficially speaking there is something for everyone. But in all regards I have nothing superficial to say about this collection, to turn the page from one mind-grasping image to the next reflecting only on how “cool” this or that looks or how the style reminds of this guy or that guy is to make a coffee table book for metallers out of an illuminated epistle for the inquisitive mind. There is nothing cool about Animus Unhinged; it is not the dude posed in front of the mirror basking in how perfectly it has rendered its skin tones; it is the unseen but palpable presence which reaches us from beyond the looking glass and forces us to ask of our world, “Is this really all there fucking is?”

In his endwords to this beautifully bound book Martin Walkyier (Skyclad, Sabbat) waxes lyrical about this concept of soul which is so integral to our judgements of all art forms. What he says goes far in explaining what separates Unhinged from many other artists; the pouring of the self into the art, the unabashed revelation of the individual, the courage to be known, in the sense that yes, as well as the paint and the pixels, there is a part of the man in each work. But soul seems an odd word to use in relation to Paul McCarroll, I do not feel or sense or divine anything of a soul from his work, whether that be in his art or in the nihilistic audio expression known as the band Scald. The artist openly blurs the line between his music and his art, the artist is the output, the output is the artist, no one part can be removed as being “other”. Every part is a complement to every other. So why do I say that I feel no soul? Is it simply an absence of warmth or humanity? Not quite, it is more that the grim, visceral immediacy of these images fashions me a portrait of the artist as a vessel, empty of self, willingly presented to be filled by the very real horrors and nightmares of a thinly veiled existence most have no awareness of. If I completely suspend all disbelief, as I am ever more lead to do as I turn the pages, then I can no longer view the artist as a creative force but as someone who merely transmits this other reality in all its overwhelming disquietude.

What warmth there is, in the poignancy with which the works which draw directly from our own visible world are captured, only works to further entrench the uneasiness caused by the collection as a whole. We are not in the presence of someone who puts their soul into their creations, we are in the presence of someone who sees the empires of evil and chaos which seep into our world in their raw, unbridled state. The artist is simply reporting this reality for those willing to accept it, and his reports are delivered with gut wrenching lucidity.

Pick any face from these pictures and you can get inside it, that creature has lived, there is not just a moment captured but an entire existence. There is everything you need for you to imagine yourself in that place, torturer or torturee, executioner or victim, master or slave. Not just fear or suffering in their expressions but a full and complex climax of a lifetime of pleasure-pain. The moment as the culmination of all preceding moments. Dynamic imagery. Far easier to believe that the artist has seen this grotesque theatre than to imagine he, or anyone else, may have created it.

As I said, superficially marking references of style to other artists can easily be done but to do so is to observe on a completely inconsequential level. What Paul McCarroll has in common with a small, and perhaps cursed, selection of artists is exactly that arrowslit through which they glimpse other worlds which pass next to and sometimes overlap with ours. Beyond the possible comparisons of style the comparison of vision tends entirely to H.P. Lovecraft and Aleister Crowley, the former for his ability to conjur up terrifying mythologically proportioned nightmares which burst into our world, the latter for proposing that these nightmares were even more real than us. McCarroll seems to swagger wantonly between both positions. Were one to ask to which he associated himself most, a feasible Unhinged response may well be, “Whichever one lied the fucking least!” Creation and vision being equally lie and truth. Equally and neither.

Have I always felt like this about Unhinged? No, not at all, it would have been impossible to personally tie together the links from the snatches of images taken from this album cover or that project to then form an overall impression (Paul distinguishes “Art” as being his personal projects and “Illustration” as being commissioned work). But it was precisely the suspicion that there was more going on that made possession of Animus Unhinged an imperative. This is no simple collection of one man’s art into which one should think no further. This collection is in itself a piece of art, it has its own message arising from the choices of the artist, a creation of many creations. To paraphrase from I shan’t say where: “The making of a good collection is a very subtle art. Many do’s and don’ts. First of all you’re using someone else’s poetry to express how you feel. This is a delicate thing.” The beauty of this collection, the anticipation of its arrival, lay in the desire to know what the artist would weave out of his own poetry, his own snapshots taken of other worlds. The magic of its organisation is the opportunity it gives us to also become open to receiving the horrific truth of what lies just beyond the obvious. In his humbling by its humility introduction Paul McCarroll dismisses discussion of creative psychology and speaks of an asocial obsession, the hyperbole of this “review” (who amongst us could actually artistically critique these contents?) is thus exactly that; this is human creation at its best and most thought-provoking, in the pages of Animus Unhinged you can let yourself become lost, at your own peril, in staggeringly vivid realities, constantly thinking, “Where is it that ideas come from?” As my eyes fall on Baphomet surveying over an infernal, torture-lust orgy from a piece commissioned by Adorior, I take a side-step to the outlandish and imagine Unhinged giving an answer that owes more to Crowley than Lovecraft. Possession essential.




