In general, the sonic world of Asher does not define contours. In Four Compositions, though, more discernible truths seem to appear behind the hissy haze and the digital grime. The sounds comprised by this tape propose a slightly different observation angle for what this Massachusetts-based gracious hermit usually tries to convey through his music. At the outset, one gets an unclear feeling: something is going on but there’s no way to put the finger on what it is. With the passage of time, you realize that the difference lies in the growing influence of a stratification of feebly persistent pitches, the hub around which the whole album rotates. Getting to know how the composer generated them is complicated: it could be everything from treated feedback to altered vocalizations, or even modified samples. It’s not important. What matters is the capacity of stealing the listeners’ awareness to transport them on a higher level of inside reading. From the sheer wavering tones of the first chapter, the evolution goes on rather steadily; what was just a sequence blurred spots at the beginning becomes similar to an incessant lament. The fear of losing who or what is really loved, the hope for a swift conclusion of a hopeless earthly phase, the consciousness of an inevitable end, the certainty of the nonexistence of what people try to self-convince of finding in the next stage. All of the above is suggested by this touching gathering of grieving oscillations, infused by a spirit akin to that informing some of Andrew Chalk’s output. Two artists operating in distant locations, apparently tuned on the same wavelength.