I clutched my first pair of 7A ProOrca shoes at ten years old, in a bedroom where you could still read "Metallica" above the bed. Too thin for metal? Not in my hands. They handled every riff, every blast, every daydream where I pictured myself as Lars or Lombardo.

Thirty-five years later, I'm piling up memories: rehearsals, concerts in sweaty rooms, studios that smell of fatigue at three in the morning. My drumsticks, however, have never left me. They've aged with me, polishing their handles with the sweat of encores.

Then the rumor: ProOrca was going to bow out. I felt a void. Impossible. ProOrca isn't a logo, it's a pulse.

So, one weekend, it all clicked: Stéphanie, a passionate entrepreneur, and I, a lifelong drummer, said, "Let's go." Flavien, the magician who has been turning hickory wood for twenty years, said, "Let's go."

Today, we keep that heart beating in Provence: premium wood, lavender-scented sawdust, and precise craftsmanship. Our baguettes leave the workshop just as they entered it forty years ago: ready to tell your story, one stroke at a time.

Come in, grab the pair that suits you, and rock the world.

Butch