Now, as a surly house music enthusiast and world traveler, I hold a healthy skepticism about anything “Tulum-inspired,” whether that’s from the trust funders I know in Boulder who travel there to “heal” despite having no real problems, or from the insufferable pseudo-shamans I have met while backpacking across Latin America. Therefore, I walked into 2854 Larimer Street with a solid bias.
Champion, who calls himself “senior vice chairman of vices and comfy chairs," quickly dispelled my most concerning thoughts on the Tulum matter. He states that "it’s only like, 15 percent Tulum," since Tulum is where the ugliest facets of capitalism masquerade as tools for conscious awakening, with people spending thousands per night on a place to stay while those who maintain it are paid a dollar an hour. In contrast, he says the Beacon exists to embolden the artists and people who contribute to the place, rather than exploit them.
For instance, the venue allows vendors who bring in their creations and hawk them to the crowd, such as the congruous necklaces with ornate lanterns retrofitted to hold LEDs, created by local artist Nathan Zenner. The engagement with local art is just one of the Beacon's attractive elements.
The Beacon hired a core crew of a dozen local artists to cover the space in immersive art. Champion says that they were able to hire people who design stages for festivals at a time when there was no work, with the pandemic shutting down the festival circuit.
With its commitment to design, there is nothing else like this venue in Denver outside of Meow Wolf. As you cross the threshold from the entrance to the dancefloor, you are enveloped by a old growth forest-inspired installation by Jon Medina called “The Willow Weave Bar,” which entangles its bar in a thicket of intertwining vines.
The Beacon also features multiple chill-out rooms made from different artists’ immersive works. The one that drew me was “Enter the Hive Mind,’’ a bee-hive themed take on a geodesic dome by Aleesha Anderson. I invited myself into the crowd that was sitting in there, asking if I could take a quick photo of them. Instead, I was quickly drawn in by the eccentricities of the people sitting within it.
One, who goes by the name Orange Peel, is a professional singing "telegram" who is hired to go to locations and sing songs for unsuspecting people, usually for things like Valentine's Day or birthdays. Upon learning that I wrote for Westword, he informed me of the time that he came into our offices and serenaded two pregnant employees with “Push It” by Salt N Peppa; the only appropriate song to sing in this situation.
Shortly after, a professional clown named JoJo asked if he could come in and smoke a burning incense. And while this was clearly a nag champa, he spent the next few minutes trying to gaslight the crowd into believing it was actually “un fumar,” a distinguished way of smoking.
The main dancefloor is something to behold. Floating above it is a cloud-like installation of white, fluffy fabric that drapes over a reactive LED lightboard, which sends audio-reactive streaks of color faintly behind the nebulous installation. The Beacon also installed a state-of-the-art Traction sound system, which interplays with the art that adorns the space, including a wall surrounding the dancefloor. It looks like a geometric, abstracted representation of an eye, with a pupil made from halved disco balls. The installation serves both form and function, created with corrugated sound-absorbing panels that augment the sound in the room.
The venue sometimes won't announce who will be playing that night, so that people come to experience the art rather than the hype.
Cynthia Griggs
Despite this, there is a predominant dedication to the dance floor, because the venue wants to draw the attention of world-class performers. Just a day before the event, Griz had played an impromptu, free show. Normally, Griz sells out Red Rocks at $70 a pop, but he played this few hundred capacity bar due to its unique nature, Champion says.
The venue sometimes won't announce who will be playing that night, so that people come to experience the art rather than the hype. Champion revealed some of the artists who have played there, but asked they remain anonymous since doing otherwise might compromise the artists' contracts with other promoters around here. The secrecy allows the Beacon to encourage these performers to play what they want, rather than what is expected of them. That's is a dream for many DJs, who often feel compelled to be crowd-pleasers rather than artists.
And that seems to be the main theme here: a dedication to people who want to be artists and stay true to their visions, rather than create their art with the intention to please.
As I left the Beacon, there was the thick layer of condensation that soaked its glass egress. It perfectly represented the thicket of gyrating dancers and eccentric conversations that permeated its walls. I will be back.
