Upon the recommendation of my friend and collaborator, Mark McCoin, I journeyed to the Tank with a crew of complete strangers. I was told that time in this distinctive place was an education like no other; a notion which would prove to be much more true than I could have imagined. My introverted nature kept me quiet and receptive, allowing me to gain a more complete picture of the new faces and personalities. The shared momentum somehow expedites the bond that can happen in the space of a car ride, and I quickly found myself at ease and rather comfortable with the unexpectedly familiar sensibilities.
The voyage through the Mountain State was accompanied by sunset, and by proxy, nightfall, masking a clear sense of direction or distance from home. The drive came to a focused end, as the road leading to the Tank pinged my subconscious with the deep resonance of unknown potential. Climbing the great mound of moon dust, the immense silhouette of the steel structure greeted us at ground level, drawing our attention to its sublime handshake with the stars. Squeezing into the ship’s small portal, one is immediately transported to a deep and alien space, one that requires its subjects to rely on a much more holistic consciousness. A hyperconsciousness, and sense of responsibility like no other; acutely aware of ones sonic footprint, and uniquely reliant on the ears for both communication and navigation.
To attempt to verbalize the following few days in the Tank, would be an insult to memory, but I can say that its occupants make the vibrations of this chamber that much more special. This community of outcasts and makers, dancers and dreamers, cultural soldiers, and collaborators has breathed life into a place, which acts as both event and experience. The Tank is a journey wholeheartedly worthwhile for any conscious being, and a sacred space to be shared among friends.