Irony abounds at the Q Café in Seattle, WA, where one patron’s First Amendment rights were abridged by two organizations that rely heavily on leveraging those same sacred rights, immediately following the world premiere performance of Thomas Hubbard’s latest song, Searching for Stigmata, on Tuesday evening, July 13, 2010. 

Before he could even put down his guitar, Hubbard was verbally assaulted by a self-appointed authority on cursing who also claimed responsibility as spokesperson for both the Quest Church, owners of the Q Café, and Victory Music, sponsor of the popular weekly open mic where the incident occurred.  The spokesperson unequivocally banned any future performance of Searching for Stigmata at the Q Café, a Seattle coffee house and venue hosting a wide variety of musical events which are all open to the public. 

The song, Searching for Stigmata, was deemed morally offensive at a venue where an entire gamut of political rants and otherwise slanderous and demeaning statements are tolerated on a regular basis, including frequent inflammatory speeches delivered from the stage by the venue’s own spokesperson.  While Hubbard’s lyrics offer a stark assessment of the interrelationships between child abuse, religion and mental illness, based on over five decades of research and personal experience, he has offered no apologies for his honesty, quoting fellow songwriter, Eric Taylor, as saying, “I’m a leftist.  Got no use for a damn liberal.”  Hubbard is a disabled mechanic living and making music in Seattle, WA.  He is best known for the power of his poetry and somewhat tolerated as a musician.

searching-for-stigmata-by-thomas-hubbard

Click the link above for a free download of the controversial song, Searching for Stigmata, by Thomas Hubbard.  “Judge not lest ye be judged.”  Move over King Herod.  Feel the heat. 

Rainy Day Window crept slowly into my consciousness shortly after I was privileged to catch Carrie Fisher on stage in Wishful Drinking, a tasty yet tortured tirade that plunges the audience deep inside the darkest reaches of “Princess Leia’s” bipolar brain.  I felt personally violated when Ms. Fisher revealed that Stephen Spielberg had sold her Star Wars likeness to be used in a college textbook as the poster child for Bipolar Disorder.  But I suppose anyone that would braid their hair like that would have to be at least a little odd.  If not downright nuts.  Wonder how that wig would look on Spielberg… 

Anyway.  Next time it rains, remember to breathe deep the gathering gloom as Carrie reminds us that “a fly is just as likely to land on shit as on pie.”  And sometimes pain is the most comfort we can ask for.  Even when it’s not. 

rainy-day-window-by-thomas-hubbard-the-peregrine-druid 

Rainy Day Window was recorded live and uncut in the living room on an Olympus LS-10. Just me and a guitar about 2 feet away from the mic with levels set on automatic.

Beat the White Joker mp3 by Thomas Hubbard

Beat the White Joker was recorded live and uncut in the living room on an Olympus LS-10. Just me and a guitar about 2 feet away from the mic with levels set on automatic.

I suppose the PC thing would be to see attire rather than costume.  Adorned rather than deformed.  A personal statement rather than a cry for help.  Gauguin in the Garden rather than Hieronymus in Hell.  But I do.  All of the above.  And I like it.

My perception of beauty continues to evolve in ways that never cease to amaze and delight me.  Sleeping two stumbles and half a roll off Broadway in the heart and stomach of Seattle’s colorful Capitol Hill.  Hanging it out in a smoky lesbian bar in Richmond, Virginia with a misanthropic homophobic homosexual homme.  Eavesdropping by default in a seedy Mexican restaurant with my darling daughters and delicately sensitive partner as drunken redneck heteros wax wildly about the hot ass on the “shim” they saw riding a horse somewheres in South Carolina.  And they liked it.

When I catch you looking, don’t blame me.  The universe would cease to be without potential.  It’s Nature’s way.  That energy gotta flow.  And the next time you find yourself wondering what gender that flashy faerie is forwarding, remember, you are not alone.  But chill.  It’s OK to look.  Even stare.  And like it.

She Chanty MP3 by Thomas Hubbard

I watched as he plowed resolutely through the park—talking quick and loud to no one in particular—arms gesticulating madly to the tempo of his temperament.  It wasn’t until he passed directly in front of me that I saw he was suddenly speaking to me.

“Is that a six string or a eight string?” he asked.  Serious. 

I played a little faster, sang a little louder, avoided eye contact.  He sidled onto the next bench without missing a beat—looking like the disheveled love child of Chico Marx or maybe that of Johnny Depp in Benny and Joon. 

For the briefest moment my ego perked at the prospect of an attentive audience, but then I understood that my story was his—that I was the attentive audience—as he launched into a commanding soliloquy.  And I played.

Song spawn is omnipresent. 

I have always been a magnet for the deranged.  But as a street musician, that magnetism powers the mother of all tractor beams.  Even on the slowest days when the missionary folks aren’t passing out free lunch and the sun refuses to shine, I can still count on at least one life history—or at least some valuable piece of advice—from the unending army of formerly rich and famous street musicians that stop by to chat me up.

Here’s how well that tractor beam works. 

A couple weeks after I wrote The Holy Modal One Man Choir, I was working Occidental Square, a few blocks from the previous spot in Pioneer Square.  One of my regulars dragged a chair within a couple feet of my feet, slumped down into the seat facing 90deg away from me, and proceeded to enjoy some sort of grand fit—mumbling and gurgling and shouting and shaking and waving and moaning and drooling and rocking and ranting—rolling eyes glazed over and unfocused upon anything in this world.

Meanwhile.  I continued playing—as best I could—while also watching my 17yo daughter, Laura, out of the corner of my eye as she sat nearby, transfixed upon the terrible tableau.  A while after my friend finally wandered off in the tow of another of my fans, I figured it was high time to world premiere The Holy Modal One Man Choir. 

As I worked through the chords a bit and got ready to sing, my heart all of a sudden slammed up into my throat.  There!  About ten yards out.  Transported outta Neverwhere.  Him.  The dude.  Chico’s love child.  The subject of his very own song.  Shouting about shooting something. 

Timing.  Is everything.  Instant karma gonna get you.

I thought to maybe play something else at that moment but quickly steeled myself to the inevitable—with a wavering conviction that sometimes the Cosmos knows more than I.

One complete moment suspended in amber. 

The Choir walked on shortly after I finished singing his song—without so much as a bye-your-leave.  And I played.

The Holy Modal One Man Choir MP3 by Thomas Hubbard

The Holy Modal One Man Choir  was recorded live and uncut in the living room on an Olympus LS-10. Just me and a guitar about 2 feet away from the mic with levels set on automatic.

“I said,” said the preacher as his voice ratcheted up an octave, “We believe in a literal interpretation of The Bible.  Although we are very open minded for renegade Baptists.  Matter of fact, we even welcome HO-mo-SEX-you-alls into our fold.  So long as they don’t practice, of course.”

Interview over.

“You know,” I said, knowing full well they couldn’t, “I am sorry.  Thank you for coming.  My daughter has my permission to join your church if that’s what she wants to do.  I have always brought her up to think for herself.  It’s her choice to make.  But, please…  For me, I will never believe what you believe until your God strikes me down on the Road to Damascus like Saul.”

Yup.  Interview over. 

Since that moment in the latter days of the last century, I have come to realize that I have, indeed, been struck down on the Road to Damascus like Saul—too many times to count—though it has been my manner to rise up and persist in stumbling along without ever really learning what it is that keeps knocking.

The story of Saul of Tarsus has fascinated me since I was a young seeker in Sunday school.  A hateful man purchases a government license for the express purpose of religious persecution.  He is struck down and blinded in the midst of his mission by the Word of God.  After the requisite three days of beseeching, Saul receives the Holy Spirit when Ananais lays hallowed  hands upon him.  Saul rises up with the clear vision of transformation to become one of the most central figures in The New Testament and the early Christian church–the Apostle Paul.

The song Damascus Road is a meta-fictional retelling of the story of Saul.  To make certain I stayed true to the original tale, I reread the Biblical telling.  I was immediately taken with the distinction made between the Word of God and the Holy Spirit.  I never had really thought about it before.  It is entirely possible to hear and accept the Word—even directly from God or angel—and still miss the point of Salvation.  Living in Grace. 

The vehicle of Grace is the Holy Spirit.  And the Holy Spirit is made manifest unto Saul in the form of a man–Ananais with his healing hands.  It is only through Saul accepting the help of another human being that his vision is not merely restored but totally recreated. 

In fact, the essential nature of human touch in the workings of the Holy Spirit is revealed over and over in New Testament events. I believe this theme speaks directly to why Jesus was necessarily born not as God—but as flesh and blood—ultimately inseparable from family, friends, community and culture.

Time and again a bunch of Bible folks may be observed sitting around some chamber staring at each other—often bickering amongst themselves and always waiting—wondering when that Word would change something for the better.  Seems it’s never until someone shows up and does a good laying on of the hands that the Holy Spirit is finally visited upon them.  Let the good times roll. 

Only then can we truly expect miracles to commence.  And they do.  I believe I recall a particularly good one having to do with loaves and fishes that turn an economy of scarcity into an economy of plenty in two shakes of the Lamb’s tale… 

Reach out and touch someone.  Be brave enough to reveal your soul.  Let someone touch you.  Expect a miracle though quiet it may be.  Somehow I missed the message for a very long time.  It seemed like Eternity.

Damascus Road MP3 by Thomas Hubbard

Damascus Road was recorded live and uncut in the living room on an Olympus LS-10. Just me and a guitar about 2 feet away from the mic with levels set on automatic. 

In Be Here to Love Me, the documentary on Townes Van Zandt, there was some great footage of Guy Clark.  At one point, he was saying that the thing that made Van Zandt so good was that nobody could cut it closer to the bone than Townes.  When he wrote a song, it often made his friends want to put up their own music and never write or play again because everything had now been said. 

I was wondering what that kind of spare and essential writing felt like.  Drink of the Devil’s Blood made me feel rather the way Townes described letting himself freefall backwards off a 3rd story balcony just for the experience.  It’s hard to get up after that, but there’s no substitute for being there.

And the wine?  I swear it’s true.  One time I made a purchase from my friend, Gypsy Sunday.  50 cases of red.  600 bottles.  For immediate personal use.  It took two trips in a pickup truck to haul that board—with the front wheels just barely skimming the ground.  In short order I was back for 40 cases more.  Sometimes there just isn’t enough… 

Drink of the Devil's Blood MP3 by Thomas Hubbard

Drink of the Devil’s Blood was recorded live and uncut in the living room on an Olympus LS-10. Just me and a guitar about 2 feet away from the mic with levels set on automatic.

Last week I slipped the missive of my spirit into a plain white envelope and posted it by snail to Richmond with a Liberty Bell Forever Stamp at color guard.  That tiny seed had lain dormant in my heart for 34 years.  It took only two days to travel across a continent, to lodge in fertile ground, to sprout, to grow.  And upon fresh new flower I found once more my dearest friend from high school days—thriving in the town that shares my mother’s maiden name.  (If you only knew… LOL)

This week I have further heeded the longstanding wishes of friends to share myself and my work with the Universe—especially the pagan and wiccan communities that have been so supportive and nurturing.  Yesterday I opened a profile on WitchVox.com and today I published two of my poems there: Dancing with Dark Friend and Walking Plow.  In addition to the link below, I am posting a permanent link near the bottom of the sidebar. 

Surrender.  Release.  Sow the seeds of freedom.  

The poetry of Thomas Hubbard the Peregrine Druid-- Now at WitchVox

With the publication of 52 original acoustic Americana song lyrics, Thomas Hubbard of PeregrineDruid.com announces the inception of what he has christened a “global publishing model for a bipolar planet.”  The initial collection of folk and blues-influenced music will expand to include free MP3 downloads, commentary on the songs, related photos, links and other info—as well as the latest music by Thomas Hubbard available anywhere in this galaxy.  The full and current collection is available at http://PeregrineDruid.com 

The initial thrust behind this project was to catalog approximately 30 years of songs written by me–Thomas Hubbard–as in “call me Thomas”.  The cataloging part is going especially slow as new songs keep getting in the way of the old.  I know it’s a bitch, but if I must procrastinate, at least something comes out of it. 

Well, lots to learn before this gig gets up and goes, so happy trails to you until we meet again.  Good night, Dale.  Good night, Trigger.  Good night, Jane.  (You know who you are, darlin’…)