Vectors has direction as well as magnitude. It's a course to be taken by an aircraft, as well as being a series of items occupying a sequence of locations in memory and identified within it by means of one subscript. Brian and Chris' sophomore effort is also a living entity which carries pathogenic agent and acts as a potential source of infection for members of another species. Vectors, like the word "vector," is all of these things at once.

Brian and Chris probably had that first mathematical meaning in mind when they titled their album. I doubt they thought much about the aeronautical definition or the computer term. And I'm quite sure they didn't consider the biological definition. But who can blame them? Primary definitions serve their purpose just fine. Leave the secondary ones to poets and the Supreme Court.

Nonetheless, all four definitions apply neatly to the album, the work of Brian Fraser and Chris Palmatier. The eight-song, 51-minute record breaks down like this: two songs are outside remixes of tracks from their eponymous first album; two are leftover from that album's sessions; two are "miniature solo project vignettes"; and lastly, two are instrumental dub recordings. Conveniently, but not necessarily coincidentally, each definition applies to one of the above pairs of songs.

"Jakarta International Airport (Restless, Demonstrative, and Oftentimes Turbulent upon Fancied ProvocationRremix)" and "The Science of Vectors (Adult Contemporary Remix)" were transformed by Jhno and Antimatter, respectively. Both contain a subscript: erratic, skittering, yet hardly epileptic drum-n-bass. Indonesian percussion and clanking metal (like those glass-enclosed, metal-ball mazes in airports) are among the various bits of memory that float into Jhno's remix, while Antimatter's version works around chimes and an expansive, ambling guitar.

The instrumental version of "Northward Nimbus" and "Ranchera del Espacio" are, one must assume, the two tracks left over from their first album, which was composed for the still-unfinished film of a director-friend. Thus, these songs follow a smooth, straight course to be taken by an aircraft. The soft, swishing percussion and warm, sedating keyboards of "Northward Nimbus" resemble Tortoise and Wheat, respectively. But, without vocals, the song is an afterthought. "Ranchera del Espacio," with its stuttering mechanics in the background, and ambient notes and reverberated acoustic plucks in the foreground, seems equally ephemeral. But, like any number of tracks from Brian Eno's Music for Airports, the sparse marriage of the tangible and ethereal is surprisingly memorable.

"Pristina" is the kind of vector that can infect the other songs on the album. The guitarwork is no more distinctive than any number of Chicago post-rock bands, and the vocals of Jennifer Tait are as unintentionally pretentious as they are intentionally unintelligible. Likewise, "The Eyelids of Bodhidharma" is a threat to the rest of Vectors. The opening is harmless, with its casual guitar picking, Winston-esque piano and muffled vocals, but the ten-minute song slowly builds (via drum-n-bass) into an overlong, climactic guitar solo that doesn't accidentally sound like the Allman Brothers: the band claims admits it's an homage.

Perhaps the most promising songs are the ones with magnitude as well as direction. Apparently representing the band "as they sound live," "Katzenjammer" and the untitled final track are dynamic post-punk numbers that not only snap the listener out a sleepwalking trance, but have the somnambulist careening into walls. Add vocals (for a little more "direction") and you'd have a worthy opening act for, say, Les Savy Fav or Trail of Dead.

But perhaps applying each definition to Vectors as a whole will provide a less fractured picture. This album has direction, but only magnitude near the end. Were it a course taken by an aircraft, it would be a smooth takeoff and a crash landing, with plenty of rest and turbulence in between. And, while now a temporary sequence in my memory, Vectors will rarely be the subscript to which I jump when interrupted. But Brian and Chris, as breathing organisms, have the potential to infect you sometime in the next couple of years, after they've progressed to a more developed state.

-Ryan Kearney