Part 1: Where Beyoncé and Taylor Swift Rehearse—Inside the Secret Town Powering the Global Event Industry
Lititz, Pennsylvania is where concerts are born, producers recalibrate, and the future of live experience quietly takes shape in barns and bunkers.
Editor’s Note: This story began as a dispatch from a summer road trip to Rock Lititz with a group called the Black Box Collective. I thought I was visiting a behind-the-scenes campus for rock stars. What I found was something far more foundational: a blueprint for how all live events could evolve—if we let them. This is Part 1 of a two-part series. The second piece picks up where this leaves off—with a thought exercise about what happens if this model expands beyond tours and into trade shows, weddings, and global conferences.
I took my first proper field trip of the summer in my new Porsche SUV—an impulsive buy made just before the tariffs kicked in—and pointed it straight toward the heart of Amish country. One part celebration, one part escape. It was the final week of June, when the event industry catches its breath between tentpole festivals and fall chaos. Phones still ring, but the calendar loosens just enough for people like us to take off our headsets and go somewhere that reminds us why we started doing this in the first place.
And how appropriate, I thought, that I was taking a literal road trip. Because what I was about to encounter wasn’t just a gathering—it was a journey into the layered, scenic, behind-the-scenes architecture of our entire industry. This wasn’t a conference. It was a drive through the blueprint of how events get made.
The excuse was a gathering called the Black Box Collective. But really, I was chasing a hunch. Working on Gathering Point News has rewired me. I feel like a 24-year-old beat reporter again—curious, nosy, hungry. Not just asking what's happening, but why it matters, and who made it happen. So I called Jacqueline Bernstein. She told me about a small meeting happening in Lititz, Pennsylvania, where a group of insiders were convening. She said to call Lenny Talarico, who'd been there before with Heidi Brumbach to meet with Rob Barber, Chief Creative Officer at ATOMIC Design and one of the OGs of the scene. Rob grew up in Lancaster County and has spent years with ATOMIC Design, watching it all evolve.
Lenny lit up when we talked. He described this strange and brilliant place called Rock Lititz—a kind of creative compound built into the cornfields of Lancaster County, where some of the biggest global tours are dreamed up, engineered, and launched. Beyoncé, Taylor Swift, U2—each of them has walked these same corridors, built their shows on these platforms, and rehearsed their cultural moments beside a horse-and-buggy road. This isn’t just a town—it’s the beginning of the global event industry.
But what if that’s starting to shift? What if the show-before-the-show is no longer just about building spectacle—but about designing meaning? That’s what this gathering hinted at. That the center of gravity in events might be migrating—not geographically, but philosophically.
And then he and Heidi said the words every event person waits to hear: "Let's go." A conclave took shape. I packed a bag, turned up the AC, and hit the road.
Later that night, after dinner and just enough wine, a few of us lingered in the hotel lounge. The conversations had settled into that warm hum—half ideas, half memory. And that’s when we looked out the window.
On the back patio, silhouetted against the dusky sky, a small group had gathered with guitars. Nothing planned. No stage, no selfie lighting. Just a few random roadies with guitars—strumming chords, harmonizing, laughing into the humid summer air. The perfect accidental overture to the moment.
It was so perfect, it felt like a scene from 1967. A little Woodstock, right here in the shadow of an LED rig.
Not performative. Not polished. Just pure, analog humanity.
For a moment, we all went quiet.
Because that—that—is why we gather.
There’s an invisible nervous system running beneath the glittering surface of every major live performance—from Beyoncé’s Renaissance World Tour to U2 at The Sphere. It’s not on the marquee. It’s not in the playbill. But without it, nothing moves, nothing lifts, nothing sings. The companies behind it don’t need introductions; they need NDAs. They don’t operate as one company. But when it matters, they operate as one organism.
We started the morning listening to third-generation Executive Vice President of Business Development, Shaun Clair of Clair Global, who opened the day with a grip-tight story about the company’s roots and the messy beauty of building something lasting. In his thirties, Shaun represented the ethos of a family business that still puts people first—employees, collaborators, clients. It was a breath of fresh air to hear a young EVP talk not just about what worked, but about the mistakes he’s made along the way. It set the tone. Vulnerability, transparency, and above all, collaboration.
Clair Global is sacred ground for anyone who’s ever felt goosebumps from a perfectly mixed guitar drop in a stadium. The company’s legacy stretches from Elvis to Springsteen to Swift—but it was never about fame. It was always about fidelity. The Clair family, now in its third generation of leadership, has quietly built one of the most trusted networks in live audio. Their expansion to Rock Nashville this fall is less a franchise play and more a continuation of values: precision, humility, and a deep respect for the craft of making moments unforgettable through sound.
From there, we moved to TAIT, where the machines think like artists. Once we signed in and agreed to yet another NDA, they broke us into smaller groups and led us through a tour that felt more like a rite of passage than a factory walk-through. It wasn’t just behind the scenes—it was in the scenes. At one point, someone quipped it felt like a lesson in being a rock star, except this classroom came with custom lifts and kinetic ceilings.
Michael Tait, the company’s namesake, started in pubs with the band Yes and somehow ended up building the global standard for kinetic staging. Here, lifts don’t just rise—they perform. The factory smells like fresh plywood and adrenaline. And they’re not done. Tait is designing an integrated venue where staging and movement are built into the blueprint—the dream of every show architect who’s ever fought with a ceiling grid.
And it’s no wonder. Rock Lititz has become a second home for the world’s biggest performers. Beyoncé rehearsed her Formation tour here, fine-tuning pyrotechnics and hydraulic effects with the TAIT team. Taylor Swift worked out her Reputation set on the very platforms we walked through. Artists don’t just drop in. They move in—for weeks. It’s not just about sound checks or lighting cues. It’s about invention, iteration, and building something that can hold the weight of millions of fans’ expectations.
“It’s not just where the shows are built. It’s where they’re invented.”
That’s what Lititz is. A creative crucible. A fortress of artistry wrapped in NDA-level discretion. And TAIT doesn’t just rehearse the vision. They engineer it.—the dream of every show architect who’s ever fought with a ceiling grid.
After the intro, we headed to the ATOMIC offices, nestled inside a complex that felt more like a college campus than a production facility. Multiple companies occupy the space, each doing their part in shaping the live experience economy. We were introduced, given the ground rules, and then taken on a tour—no photos allowed, of course, because what they’re working on is pure top-secret NDA territory.
The space was purely industrial in the best way: the wood shop, the paint shop, the print area where they fabricate signage for everything from the Super Bowl to the next great brand conference. It was a symphony of craftsmanship.
One detail I didn’t know: ATOMIC gets its name from its founder, Tom McPhillips, a scenic designer who built the company on the belief that modular scenic could travel light, install fast, and still pack an emotional punch. Rob Barber showed us around like a man giving a tour of his own brain. You could feel the tempo shift in the air: this wasn’t about set pieces. It was about systems thinking. Field kits for immersive imagination.
What ties them together isn’t ownership or structure. It’s a sensibility. Everything is stitched in silence, confidentiality, and cooperation. A show may require sound from Clair, motion from TAIT, and scenic from ATOMIC, fused across oceans in load-ins that start at midnight and end in standing ovations.
On the final morning, we found ourselves back at ATOMIC, this time in a different space—quieter, more focused. It was 8 a.m., and we sat in a circle like students on the last day of camp, the scent of fresh coffee mixing with the smell of sawdust and stagecraft. This was not a glossy keynote. It was a working session. We learned how ATOMIC’s modular scenic is designed to move fast, install intuitively, and adapt on the fly—but even more importantly, how the modularity itself became a metaphor for where the industry is headed.
What followed was one of the richest conversations I’ve had in years. We talked about the end of single-script run-of-shows. About planning for multiple generations in one space. About wellness and freedom and letting people choose their own adventure while still delivering a unified emotional outcome. Someone called it multi-planning. Someone else said intentional planning. What it really was, though, was intelligent planning.
Not unplanning. Not overplanning. But thinking strategically about why we gather and how to make people feel what they need to feel. We talked about layering, about collaboration, about rejecting one-trick pony ideas. It wasn’t about a cool table moment or a big lighting gag. It was about orchestration. About every element—food, design, entertainment, timing—working together to deliver something that felt coherent, relevant, and alive.
By the time we wrapped, it felt like we’d touched on something deeper than programming. We were talking about craft, about emotional intelligence, about creating for complexity. It was the kind of morning that reminds you that events aren’t just built—they’re composed.
Traveling with event people is never quiet. But what made this different was that we weren’t just socializing—we were being orchestrated. Every session, every tour, every breakfast and glass of wine was embedded with intention. The agenda wasn’t rigid, but it was composed. It opened with origin stories and evolved into something bigger: a real-time study in collaboration, ego-free creativity, and future-facing innovation.
There was a quiet genius in starting with the history—the early tears, the original missteps, the founding chaos of companies like TAIT, Clair, and ATOMIC—before walking us through their current interwoven campus. It set a tone. That session at ATOMIC on Day 1, with Rob Barber and Joe McMonagle, felt less like a tour and more like a handshake with the future. You couldn’t take photos, but you took away metaphors.
The group conversation that followed, "Collaboration Without Ego," hit harder than expected. It wasn’t hypothetical. It was lived. We all recognized the moments when collaboration cracks—and how rare it is when it doesn’t. That vulnerability carried through to Day 2, when we sat in ATOMIC’s other building, early in the morning, unpacking modularity not just as scenic methodology but as strategic philosophy. That discussion stayed with me: about generational fluency, about multi-path experiences, about designing for feeling, not just function.
It all built to something. Every meal came with an undercurrent of theory. There was a woman from Vegas who treated breakfast like a format brainstorm. A lighting veteran from New York who answered technical questions with poetry. A strategist from Toronto who was sketching in a Moleskine before the shuttle even arrived.
What I loved was that the whole trip opened with a real-life illustration of collaboration—TAIT, Clair, Atomic, each with their lane, each sharing the stage. That wasn’t just a tour; it was a blueprint. And it turned out to be the perfect setup for the conversations that followed. It was a strategic, subtle move by the organizers of this conclave, and it worked.
We asked big things: what does real collaboration look like now that everything is hybrid, virtual, live, intimate, and global—all at once? What makes something worth gathering for? What does scale even mean when the tools have changed but the soul wants the same thing?
We didn’t solve everything. But in between the banners, the consoles, the lifts, and the guitars, I think we got closer.
Lititz isn’t a secret. But it’s where secrets become spectacle. Beyoncé and Taylor Swift rehearsed here. So did U2. This quiet town in Pennsylvania is the launchpad of the global event industry—and what’s being built next may redefine what live experience means.
And in the age of micro-meetings and choose-your-own-adventure conferences, the true magic often happens after the agenda ends. What surprised me most was not just the design of the experience, but the follow-up—the cascade of reflections, comments, and shared epiphanies that flowed across LinkedIn like a digital encore.
When 21 brave souls said yes to a half-baked idea with no formal agenda, no roadmap, and definitely no matching t-shirts, something rare happened. They didn’t just show up to participate. They co-authored a gathering. It wasn’t a conference, a retreat, or even a meeting in the traditional sense. It was looser, wilder, more electric.
And now, in the glow of the departure day, the responses have been just as meaningful as the sessions. The reflections from Lenny Talarico and Heidi Brumbach reminded me that this was never about checking boxes. It was about trusting the vibe. Showing up whole. Letting go of overplanning. And watching what happens when trust replaces templates.
It’s not over. It never really is. That’s what makes this community—this constellation of thinkers, producers, strategists, designers—so powerful.
This wasn’t summer camp after all. It was a road trip—spontaneous, winding, full of unexpected turns and quiet revelations. The kind of ride you don’t want to end.
To the 21 collaborators who made the Black Box Collective something truly unforgettable—thank you. From producers and designers to visionaries and veterans, you came without slides, scripts, or silos—and you made something real.
Special thanks to:
Anthony Bollotta, Chris Lashua, Dangilo Bonilla, Datwon Thomas, Gwendolyn McNutt, Ivan Piedra, Jaclyn Bernstein, Jim Brumbach, Jocelyn Flanagan, Mark Howell, Melissa A. Jurcan, Michelle Joy Newson-Howard, Nicole Bernardi, Richard Foulkes, Sébastien David, Stephanie Jayko, Wynn Brumbach—and of course, our guides Heidi Brumbach and Lenny Talarico, and the ultimate host, Rob Barber of ATOMIC.
Rock Lititz was the setting. But the story? That was all of you. And that’s what makes it worth the drive.
Takeaways from the Road:
Collaboration isn’t a theory—it’s a design principle. Seeing TAIT, Clair, and ATOMIC operate in harmony showed that even the most complex systems run on trust and respect.
The history of Rock Lititz is a living archive—still being written. What began as separate pioneers is now a synchronized ecosystem.
Modular thinking isn’t just scenic. It’s a mindset for modern strategy, where every element flexes to the audience, not the other way around.
Rehearsal spaces matter. This isn’t just where artists soundcheck. It’s where shows are invented. Beyoncé and Taylor Swift didn’t just rehearse here. They built the DNA of their tours here.
Planning now means programming for multiple generations, behaviors, and emotional thresholds—without losing narrative integrity.
Real collaboration happens when egos leave the room. The "Collaboration Without Ego" session reminded us that the quietest moments often define the best partnerships.
Design isn’t decoration. It’s emotional infrastructure. Food, flow, lighting, space—it all communicates.
Scenic fabrication has its own poetry. Touring the paint shop, signage area, and print stations at ATOMIC felt like entering a creative forge.
The most lasting ideas came from casual corners—morning chats over coffee, late-night wine debates, and a roadie jam session that accidentally set the tone for the whole trip.
The industry’s veterans are rethinking everything. And they’re inviting the next generation to the table not with nostalgia—but with curiosity.
The schedule was loose, but the orchestration was sharp. This wasn’t winging it. This was curation by intuition.
LinkedIn became the afterparty. The response online reinforced that micro-gatherings can have macro impact.
Road trips make memory. Unlike conferences, this felt like something you drove toward—not just showed up for.
The shift is clear: from events that say something to experiences that make you feel something.
We didn’t just analyze the future of the industry—we started shaping it in real time.
We didn’t just talk about what comes next. We started building it. Together.
PS: If you have interest in getting involved contact Heidi Brumbach at heidi@technischcreative.com
Up next in Part 2: What if every experience had a diorama? What if trade shows were rehearsed like theater, and weddings had digital twins? The next chapter is a thought experiment—but not a far-fetched one. Read: Future Event Ideas: Before the Event Begins: The Infrastructure We Forgot to Build
David, thank you for so beautifully recounting our experience at Rock Lititz. I do believe it gave all of us “industry vets,” a sense of longing, touring in the same facilities where Taylor Swift first dove into the stage floor, Super Bowl Halftime-show apparatuses are designed and engineered, and production and technology get a chance to settle in and fine tune before the beating starts.
In 1965, on her premiere album, Barbra Streisand recorded, “Where is the Wonder,” by Dion McGregor and Michael Barr. In June, we found it at Rock Lititz.