Captured on dusty minidiscs tucked away for two decades, this album is a collage of performances, and a glimpse into the "The Gathering" in the late 90s and early 00s. It features musicians - vocal, wind, string, electronic, percussive - from all walks of life. It shows the openness and creativity of the Gathering during this period.

Morris Masuda is a musician based in Norwich. He produces abstract electronic music and plays guitar, bass and drums. Previous releases have included 'High Ash' a piece that was inspired by running around High Ash farm and used chopped up piano chords extended over 40mins to be used as a running aid and 'Mirror Haze' which featured Joe Sanger on shakuhachi and Chris Dowding on trumpet. See:

morrismorris.bandcamp.com

Morris says:

"I've had a box of minidiscs on a shelf for 20 years. These are recordings the Gathering , mostly upstairs at the Betsy Trotwood, from 1999 to 2003. The Betsy is a pub in Clerkenwell, London. I was in my early 20s, newly arrived in London and keen to be open-minded and get involved with other musicians. The Gathering was started by Maggie Nichols in collaboration with others and at this time she was usually there every Monday night. Maggie was always very welcoming to new arrivals and her spirit and attitude set the open and inclusive atmosphere.

There was never any instruction about what would happen, things just started. There were regulars. At that time I remember Frank, Carmel, Steve, Dennis, Dave, Hugo... many more I have forgotten... Usually there was a room of ten, sometimes more. People came and went. People from all walks of life. I hope the people involved don't mind this recording.

What do I remember of this? I remember pints of Spitfire soaking into beer mats. I remember the constant rumble of traffic on Farringdon road. I remember the more experienced improvisers leading by example. I remember the singers Maggie attracted to the group. Going with the flow always. I remember people responding to each other with sound; challenging, agreeing, showing off, communicating. I remember many types of wind, string, electronic and percussive instruments. People brought instruments they had made, changed, found, collected. People babbled into instruments they were otherwise skilled at. I remember finding new ways I could play my instrument. I remember Dennis playing a table of children's toys with a big smile on his face. I remember a guy who came dressed as a clown singing without any concern for anyone else. I remember a saxophonist who would always arrive late and then play incredibly loud, exploding in a corner by himself. I remember an Argentinian couple who got up and spontaneously became passionate conductors of the room. I remember a guy who wanted it to be a blues jam because 'what you're doing sounds like my nightmares'. I remember inviting friends along, with mixed reactions. I remember people bringing strange electronic objects. I remember throat singers, harps, theremins. I remember comedy. I remember people playing with anger, sadness and love. I remember getting in a trance. I remember feeling it was therapy. I remember being bored sometimes. I remember a pretentious, self indulgent, egotistical, utopian-fart smelling competition. I remember a whole lot of noodling going on. I remember everything being open ended and free. I remember enjoying it and hating it. I remember being happy being weird, being happy there were other people who did this. I remember being young, drunk and open. I remember being less cynical than I am now. I remember friendly conversation and laughter.

For this recording I tried to take those moments when I felt things came together, that everyone was on the same wavelength. This is subjective of course and perhaps takes away the main point of this kind of music. The evolution of one state to another. This is lost in editing out sections, the movement through time is lost. Maybe it is against the spirit of it to chop, edit and arrange.

Improvised music is at its best when it is a very sensitive, open response to what is happening now and it is always now in this music. If you are not there while it is happening, the moment has gone. It's the difference between a butterfly before and after an encounter with a lepidopterist.

That said, I wanted to make a collage that reminded me of my experience of being there. That was then, 20 years ago. I wanted to make something new from it. So it's a collage of dust. My subjective choice of when things came together from all the complexity of people improvising. A bit of indulgent time travelling. I was looking for moments that are emotional and human with a beyond-language understanding and kinship. I have chosen moments that were less atonal, cacophonous and jarring than others, again a personal choice. I also wanted to make something that was an album length summary of the 30 hours or so of recordings that I have. Something that could be listened to in one go.

We played facing each other in a loose circle in an L-shaped room. Wooden tables, chairs and floor. I usually played guitar through a small battery powered amp and melodica. There were vocals, horns, percussion, drums, electronics, stringed instruments and sometimes visual artists and dancers.

This was recorded on a cheap mic into a portable mini-disc recorder. I set it up next to me on a stool or table. I miss minidiscs. Chunky, colourful things. The last evolution of physical capture before music became invisible again. Some were flimsy some were more solidly made, handwritten notes on the cases, finite, tactile and unique.

The finished edit is taken from about 20 different Gatherings. I edited some into shorter sections that I slowed or reversed. The recordings were made mostly at the Betsy Trotwood, there is one that was made at Maggie's place in Wales and a couple in other locations that I can't remember. The Betsy is a Victorian pub on Farringdon road in Clerkenwell. Peter Ackroyd in his book "London-A biography" describes how Clerkenwell was often a place where radical movements and protests started throughout London's history. He wonders why this might be, offering no answer. Something in the air maybe.

There is chaos in this music, freedom, anarchy. Anarchy, is this anarchy? Is it a musical version of how free we could be in the rest of life? 'Do what thou whilt being the whole of the law'? Personally and boringly I think pluralist liberal democracy needs strong institutions and anarchy as a political method is naive in thinking anything other than power based on pure violence and tyranny would result from it. Anarchy as a creative method is something different though. Something much more positive as it exists within boundaries where no one gets hurt. The Gathering was and is 'do what thou whilt'. Anything anyone did musically was ok, it could be responded to, copied, assimilated, fought against.

As a naive and impressionable young person, I remember feeling that the Gathering was was how people should be musically and artistically (and maybe socially). Open and sensitive, unjudgemental, going with the flow, willing to learn and be out of comfort zones. It's a kind of musical judo, never attacking always responding. Maybe the kind of state of mind people need to be in to live together in large numbers. It also seemed in some way a better form of human communication, being non-verbal and emotional as music is. It felt like a new method of interacting with other brains and spirits and becoming close to them.

I also remember feeling that it was awful. Sitting there on some nights, as the widdling raged around me, wondering why I had come. So, some mean thoughts: It is pretentious, cliquey, indulgent and weird. It is very unsexual and unlikely to get anyone laid. In fact perhaps it is the literal sound of middle-aged sexual frustration. Squeaky bonk music. Perverse musical bondage for gimps. For people who can't dance, can't hold a tune or a coherent conversation. Zappa said 'jazz is not dead, it just smells funny' and this is about as bad smelling as you can get. Music for people so wrapped up in themselves they can't tell how awful they sound. A rock drummer friend came once and hated it, going on about the terrible sound of people playing their instruments badly. Fair enough.

On the other hand there was something pure and innocent about it. Playful and primal. Incredibly sensitive, trusting, fearless and open. And fuck your mean thoughts, who cares? Maybe this is something that humans have always done for thousands of years. Not just homo sapiens but further back. Maybe this is something normal and necessary. And it doesn't need to sound good. It's not a commodity, it's not for an audience, it was about being there and responding openly. This is not a landscape or a still life, it's a living abstract. It's music you experience, you're in it not looking at it from the outside. You can't dance to it but you can dance to it, why not? Let yourself go, don't hold on to what you can do, follow what is happening.

I'm happy I went to the Gathering during this time. I came up with new techniques on my instrument there that I still use and became a better musician and listener from attending. It was a good time and place to be. The night was always different depending on who might walk through the door. I am very grateful for meeting all those people, for communicating with them, for the experience of being there, and feeling like I was there, at moments feeling very present and connected."