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Metallurgical Fire
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Metallurgical Fire Rorcal is frankly one of the best bands around right now and their music is far more powerful than most. If you seek out bands with great drummers you need to add them to your list. Favorite track: I'd done my duty to my mother and father. And more than that I'd found love.
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nawzda Ominously haunting & sonically hateful. Favorite track: She drained you of your innocence and you poisoned her with it.
Unhallowed Remains
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Unhallowed Remains If Neurosis made full concept albums based on paperback horror stories, it would sound like Rorcal. It sounds like the sort of Post Metal nightmare with relentless riffage combined with brutal vocal performance art building to an absolute creshendo of nihilism and horror

Favorite track: I was the Muladona's seventh tale.
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This is the story of the terrible events I witnessed as a young boy in Incarnation, Texas, back in October 1918. Only a handful of people still living know what happened there. The memory of it has gradually disappeared, like the town itself: fields gone fallow, husks of abandoned barns fallen in on themselves. Years ago I swore a sacred oath never to tell what happened. I’ve let my memories, like the town, become overrun with weeds. However, recent events have forced me to break that promise for reasons that will become clear. A writer named Bulgakov once said that manuscripts don’t burn. By that, I think he meant that some stories can’t be silenced. Even if you hide them in a box in the attic or toss them on a bonfire, they have a way of being told. And there are so many stories haunting me from that Fall, so many years ago! Many voices still whisper in my ear. So, with a trembling hand, I’ll describe the events as I witnessed them. I won’t leave anything out-my fear and my regret at not being able to save the ones I loved-except for the location of the town. For no one must ever go back to Incarnation and risk provoking the malignant forces that cost us so dearly. I don’t know if telling this story is the right thing to do. I just know I have no choice. May God have mercy on my soul. I’ve been sickly since birth, and the burden has fallen on my mother. While the other boys run and play, I stay inside my hut. I lie on the dirt floor and look up at the ceiling or through the small gaps in the mud walls. My world is composed of bits and pieces of that larger world mother tells me about. Through the gaps of it, I see fragments of the sun and sky. I glimpse an ankle from a villager running by, the blur of a stone kicked by children’s legs, agile and strong. More than these fragments of images, my world is composed of sounds. Women pounding out roots, whispering to each other. The crackling of early-morning fires. Grunts of men stringing bows, sinew and wood tightening, slaps on arms and legs to warm themselves, getting ready for the hunt. And the cry of the itsá marking its territory as it wheels and turns, high in the heavens, and, far away, the haunting sound of the ndolkahs calling with their big cat calls to each other in the hills. I do not go outside into the light, because the dust sickens me even more than the smoke from the fire inside. I cast no shadow. Sometimes, I wonder if I could ever cast one. I have a constant companion just the same, not one of light or darkness but one of sound. It is the sound of my own breath, gurgling and spitting. I have always had it. I am so used to it that if they found some magic way to remove the fluid that constantly fills my lungs, I wouldn’t know what to do. It would feel like a death in the family. Today when I awoke, I heard no more sounds of the replacement men, or the villagers, or the children. No groans, no hacking coughs, no lamentations, prayers or curses. Today when I awoke, I heard only the rustling of the trees. By mid-day the animals lost their apprehensiveness. They began their scratching and calling and entered the village common area. They became bolder still, and I could hear them licking the pots for leftover food. Soon, over the sound of buzzing flies, I heard their growling and yelping as they began to fight over the corpses. If I could only lift my body up and crawl to the entrance of the hut – something I’ve never been able to do – I’m sure I would see the grass growing tall in the common area, the corpses strewn here and there, skeletons gnawed clean, still dressed in rags. The shiny stones and dolls, the ball made of leather scraps, the wooden pestle for pounding roots, all of them are still and untouched, showing the first signs of rot. My mother’s love for me had been so strong, so consuming, she had succeeded in killing each and every living person in the village, original or replacement. As I turned to her corpse I kissed her sweet-smelling hair and said, ‘Thank-you’.
Because of his mother’s need, a child agrees to overcome his deepest fear. To cross these doors, to dare to enter this dark place, all of this is the symbol of his adulthood to come. Behind these doors, a father figure awaits, holy but acquainted withto evil deeds. He knows the good has to be reached by diving deep in the corrupt world behind the scene. The job is surrounded by mystery. The boy has to stay ignorant. The haunted house is reached at night, black as death. To step inside is like entering a nightmare. Soon death is upon them. Its incarnation scatters a light and sweet perfume. The boy feels the need to help her. First kiss is silken. The second one tastes like rot. With an agony he’d never felt before he drew her close, then their lips touched and it was like the first day of spring after the thaw. It was beautiful and pure. She grabbed him and kissed him, harder now. It wasn’t as good as the first time, like a peach left out too long in the sun. He then knows he has to end her, because she’s both evil and good. She’s father, mother and lover.
The walk is long, the sun burns down. Going forward to prove himself worthy. All alone. When he finds this girl, he feels appeased. Without any reason, he trusts her. She leads him through the ever-thickening forest. The girl asked, ‘You warrior?’ ‘Yes, yes,’ I said, and I don’t know why, but I added, ‘I, warrior. Great warrior.’ She translated, and the man said something else. ‘Who you fight?’ she asked. ‘Anarchists,’ I responded. I could see from the look on her face she didn’t understand at all. My face was sweating so much that my glasses were starting to slide down my nose again. But I didn’t dare take my finger off the trigger, even for a second. I didn’t like the glances the men were casting at me – dark, suspicious, angry. ‘Tell them that ...’ I said, ‘I fight ... evil.’ They finally reach the village, and there they all wait. The one he’s looking for is there, too. But the concern is the girl, like it always is. They say the cause of all evil originates in her. Has she to be protected? Or does he need her defeated? She shouted out, her white hands clutching at the dark ground, ‘He say I evil. I bring man. I bring you. I bad luck. I bad. He want you take me away. Never come back ... But he no do it, ‘cause he afraid of me.’Everything was quiet, except for the buzzing of bees and the screech of a hawk far away. The prisoner lying on the ground gasped out something in his language. The leader’s eyes grew wide, and he looked like he was about to say something. At his words, the girl begged me, ‘No, no. No let him. No let him.’ The prisoner held up his hands to the leader, showing where he was tied. He pointed towards the girl. No let him, no let him,’ the girl screamed. Sweat was streaming down my face. I thought of how many men were surrounding me. I thought of the heat. I thought of the day my mother sent me away on the train, the smell of the ham-and-cheese sandwich she’d packed for me, and how a big kid had stolen it from me. I thought of my old man back in town, and his foul words and his foul breath and all the times he’d ever punished me. The leader took a bone knife from his belt and took a step towards the man. I squeezed the trigger.
It all begins with growing noises. The nausea. It makes me feel sick. I can’t walk in a straight line. I can hear people talking, but their lips aren’t moving. The priest is surely hiding terrible secrets. Soon enough I realize that my dead ear is now perceiving people’s deepest thoughts, as my good one catches their lies: a whole world separates them both. The hypocrisy is so strong in them that I pierce my second ear to fall in phase only with dirt in them. The dirt in them. The old whip feels so good in my hand. Feels so good.
A static marble woman in a graveyard. With a strangely expressive face. The fascination grows as she follows him home with her eyes. His heart beating fast, a slight pain in his chest, Konrad ran headlong, slipping on small patches of early-morning frost that had formed in the shadows of the tombs ...The statue had moved since yesterday all right. Her ankles were together, knees slightly open, reclining like an odalisque in a sultan’s tent who’s bested his many wives and concubines to reign supreme. Swathed along her arms and wrists and wrapped about her neck were strands of antique jewellery, pearls and emeralds set in platinum and gold. On her fingers were diamond and emerald rings. The stones glinted in the sun, although the metal was tarnished, as if it had been buried underground for a long time. As he constantly goes back to her, the statue slowly turns into a goddess. The first signs were almost invisible, but they were there - she moved. They learn to communicate with the flowers’ smells. His evil plan slowly emerges through vanilla scent; he trains her. One night, everything falls into place: The statue eliminates its mortal rival. Its mortal rival. Love enters reality. And a new bloodbath happens. The joy of love dies right away, as he stands alone in front of her, soaked in the blood of his lover.
A cold place far beyond space and time, where no desire ever needs to be fulfilled. A place like death, but with no rest. All memories fade away. Slowly fade away. You must survive, you must adapt, otherwise you let them win. You think things will get better after the Wa-ar to End all Wa-ars? You think techno-ology wil bring enli-ightenment? Fools! The only co-onstant in this world is blackness of the human he-eart. Listen and horrified. Hold on strong to every bit of memory: A picture, a smell or a noise. When all hope is lost is when you’ll start remembering. You’ll soon be reborn anew. It will take years, hundreds of them but when you finally wake up, you will behave, you’ll be gentle. They‘ll be happy and praise you. They will feel so much pride for the wise choice they made. But you will know the truth. But you will know what has been done, and, when everyone is asleep, you’ll come to the scientists’ room and end this nightmare.
A sea of false smiles hiding murder, jealousy and revenge. The last tale leads us astray. It merges reality, fiction and its interpretation. Frightening bedtime stories are over, the reality takes its revenge. It’s finally time to guess, and the truth now unfolds. Through the din of rain that drummed hard against the roof, I heard the mantel clock faintly chime 10, 11, 12 midnight. Each second that passed after that stretched on forever. My mind jumped in wild disarray to the events of my life ... Perhaps the curse stretched back to the very founding of Incarnation. Had the discovery of gold set into motion the need for a sacrifice each generation, from the miners who’d died in the tunnels to the settlers who’d died of disease, to me? Maybe the earth didn’t want us. Maybe it never had. I felt a sudden drop in temperature. Mixed with the gusts of wind that shook the doors and shutters came a hissing noise, and the monster filled the room with the smell of ash and pestilent flesh and the sound of the clanking chains the creature dragged behind. I prayed that the rolling thunder would mask the pounding of my heart and not give me away. I heard the thing enter my bedroom and circle round my bed. This was the first time I’d looked the creature full in the face. It filled me with such horror that I immediately covered my eyes. It was an obscenity so terrible, so overwhelming that I cannot describe it in physical terms. It was war. It was pestilence. It was resentment that never died. It was a hate that could never be mollified. It was innocence perverted. It was dreams turned to cynicism and despair. Buried memories unearthed. A murder perfectly hidden in the boy’s fragile subconscious. It strikes him so hard, like a storm. Like a storm. A father who’s not a father. A bastard bred as sacrifice to take his revenge on a cheating wife. The hatred is so deep in understanding that he spent his whole life poisoned, his whole life weakened. We stood around the grave. The simple headstone read, ‘Adoring mother’. It had stopped raining. There was frost on the grass, and the sun was bright and cold. I glanced down at my grandfather’s pocket watch; the second hand slowly swept towards eleven o’clock. As we stood, not a word between us, a peal of bells from the church back in town rang through the air. It was as if all the suffering during those years were compressed into those simple notes. It was an ache that knew no depths. Just three nights ago, she turned to me, her eyes bloodshot, her body drenched in sweat, and she whispered that she’d seen the Muladona in her dreams. I told her it was only the fever, that we’d killed the beast together, but she refused to believe me. With a haunted look in her eyes, she said, ‘It’s comin’ for us ... Before it gets here, you gotta write down the story. You gotta tell everythin’ that happened. Since then I’ve been writing furiously. I broke my sacred promise. But I must tell the story in case the Muladona does come so you know how to defeat it. Don’t listen to its lies. Trust in the people you love and always do what you feel in your heart. I don’t know if the Muladona’s really coming for us or not. I just know I’m no longer afraid of it, or death, or any other thing the devil has in store for me. Years ago we took a stand. We fought for everything that has value: love, happiness, freedom. And we won. Every day since then has been a gift.



Always driven by a need of constant evolution, RORCAL is back with an ambitious and inhabited 5th album. Entitled Muladona and integrally based on the novel of the same name published in 2016 by the writer Eric Stener Carlson, this new work evolves through shorter, less progressive titles as deployed on Creon, while preserving the melodic depth and attention to detail that made the interest of this album. The undeniable black metal influences are here joined by drone / doom incursions that give this new creation a much more narrative aspect and thus helps to capture the horrifying essence of the novel from which it is directly inspired. The album was made in close collaboration with Carlson who lent his voice to foster a total immersion in the story of the Muladona, functioning as a degenerate sound companion to this rich & epic work of horror. Recorded fully live during three rainy days in spring 2019, Muladona marks a fascinating new chapter and shows a group in full possession of its means and destiny.


released November 8, 2019

All music and lyrics by Rorcal – additional readings by Eric Stener Carlson
Recorded live at Blend Studio by Stéphane Kroug
Engineered by Stéphane Kroug, assisted by Raphael Bovey
Editing by Jean-Philippe Schopfer at Yellow Recordings
Mix and mastering by Raphael Bovey at My Room Studio
Design by Happypets Studio
Layout by Diogo Almeida

Inspired by the novel “Muladona” © Eric Stener Carlson, published by Tartarus Press, 2016
Readings and texts (in italics) adapted from the novel, courtesy of Eric Stener Carlson, All rights reserved


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RORCAL Genève, Switzerland

RORCAL / doom / black / drone / satan.

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