I have never eaten foie gras, but I think about it sometimes. I’ve always imagined the texture to be that of ice cream—rich, dense, decadent in both procurement and taste. I think of it as something reserved for special occasions, an aphrodisiac, an unrepentant flex. Bay Area “solo dronescapist” Foie Gras keys into that goth, pulsating sensibility of the duck/goose liver it’s named after. “Red Moon” drips with emotion and mood, the distorted guitar howling over primal drums. “Devotee” is mystic, otherworldly, desire unwavering. It’s hot as hell. by Jas Keimig