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Mission Possible

It's a late January evening at the Denver Rescue Mission, and the Mission Band is getting ready to play in front of a typically tough crowd--approximately sixty disheveled men (and a handful of women) who hardly seem excited about the music to come. Most of the men stare solemnly ahead and make little eye contact with their peers. Some doze off, others sit upright and attentive, and a few slouch defiantly, like high-school bad boys awaiting a tongue-lashing. There's an empty chair between most of the attendees, all of whom sport a layer of grime and a palpable weariness that comes in part from knowing that they've got to sit through an hour of saving grace in exchange for a free meal. But what many of them don't realize is that while the musicians are here to espouse religious beliefs, they're determined to rock the house as they do.

After a brief Scripture reading and a reminder of the house rules--no hats, fighting, drugs, drunkenness or "disrespecting God"--the band opens with a lurching version of Bob Dylan's "Gotta Serve Somebody." Jay Earl Krebs, a clean-cut 35-year-old, strums an acoustic guitar and delivers a fervently bluesy vocal that's backed by upper-register harmonies from Christopher Hearns, a cohort who works at the Mission. Meanwhile, guitarist Jimmy Kincaid sends down fuzz-toned single-string leads embellished with occasional whammy-bar dips; bassist John Clardy fingers energetic lines in front of his tucked-and-rolled Kustom amplifier; and drummer John Simpson provides the sort of thunder that eventually grabs the attention of most of the audience. At one point, a baby-faced young man goes through a slow-motion ritual of removing his shoes and socks and inspecting his calluses, then puts his footwear back on only to repeat the painstaking process. But later, during a dramatic version of "Were You There When They Crucified the Lord?," the man listens while gazing at a jailhouse tattoo of a cross on his middle finger.

Christianity is a constant theme at the Denver Rescue Mission: Its interior includes such decorative touches as a crown of thorns, several stock portraits of Christ tending his flock, and the words "HE CARETH" spelled out in pink neon. The Mission Band (which also includes keyboardist Dennis Hall) follows this path as well, dispensing a raucous brand of "aggressive praise" to the downbeat types who line up each night under the "Jesus Saves" sign that illuminates the facility's entrance. But if you think these raging revivalists see themselves as better than their listeners, think again. With the exception of Krebs, who founded the combo in 1996, each of the musicians was once among the poor souls to whom they're now ministering. In Clardy's words, they were "a bunch of drug addicts, alcoholics, misfits and sinners" prior to overcoming their vices with the help of the Denver Rescue Mission's New Life rehabilitation program, which helps homeless men get back on their feet. And now they're using their chops to let the city's lost legions know that a similar transformation can be theirs as well, no matter what vice is keeping them on the sidewalk.

Kincaid is one of the Mission Band's success stories. "I was homeless and had family here in Denver, but people got sick of me trying to kill myself," he says. "I was very bad, drinking vodka for breakfast. I spent decades trying to destroy God's temple." But after joining New Life in 1997, he got over his addictions. Eight months ago, on the day he graduated from New Life, he married the woman he had "put through hell" and subsequently enrolled at the Community College of Denver. Today he's majoring in environmental technology, holds a 4.125 GPA and stands as a nominee for president of Phi Beta Kappa's Denver chapter. "Some people say I'm a walking miracle," Kincaid admits, "but I give all the glory to God."

So, too, does Clardy, whose handsome face bears the weathered stamp of street life. "My big thing was downers," he notes. "Heroin, Secanol, Tuinols, Dilaudid, Demerols--you name it. I'd do just about anything you'd lay in front of me." By 1985, when he grabbed his guitar, some vodka and a bag of marijuana and moved from Tulsa, Oklahoma, to Denver, he already had a few years of homelessness under his belt. He'd lost his job and his apartment, but rather than asking for help from his family, he sought relief from smack, smoke and Smirnoff. His life alternated between periods of comparatively good fortune during which he played in a local rock band, Santa's Little Helper, and addled stints in abandoned buildings. But things turned around after he signed on with New Life in 1992. He successfully completed the five-step plan in 1995, and when he returned to the Mission the following year, he did so as a house manager. "Now I've got my own home," he says proudly.

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Marty Jones

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