'MC5' traces the arc of legendary band

In the convoluted root system of rock 'n' roll legacies, it's no overstatement to say that the proto-punk '60s garage pop of the MC5 was instrumental in spawning scores of bands that emerged from London in the '70s, Seattle in the '90s, and lots of places in between.

Though raw and sometimes slapdash, "MC5: A True Testimonial" goes a long way in explaining why that happened, most notably through the raw power of the band's music and the fiery passion that was bound with its image.

The MC5 (for Motor City — although it turns out the letters also meant a great many more unprintable things) began in 1967 when singer Rob Tyner and guitarist Fred Smith came to blows in the parking lot of a divey Detroit bar. Wayne Kramer remembers the story while standing on the exact spot where the two pals (both now dead) were locked in battle. The implication is that this same primal rage and violent passion went on to fuel their music as a rock outfit.

Movie review Showtimes and trailer **½ "MC5: A True Testimonial," a documentary with Wayne Kramer, Rob Tyner, Fred Smith, Michael Davis, Dennis Thompson. Directed by David C. Thomas. 119 minutes. Not rated; suitable for mature audiences. Little Theater, through Thursday.

Tag-teaming with the other surviving members, Michael Davis and Dennis Thompson, in hand-held video interviews, Kramer goes on to recount many more legendary tales of the band's frenetic existence and sad demise. The interviews are peppered with terrific performance segments and other archival footage from the group's heyday.

The gist is that the MC5 used the psychedelic sound of the time as a stepping stone to something new and often ahead of its time. The wild stage antics of Tyner and company and the freaky fashions that were equal parts hippie, glam, grunge and punk are almost eerie in the way they echo so many other rock icons that came later.

Some of the footage is from FBI surveillance film taken at the 1968 Democratic convention in Chicago where the MC5 played a free concert. After the band's rabble-rousing set, the group managed to escape just before tear gas started flying and Chicago's finest began cracking heads.

The political aspect of the band's history carries great weight, even though it was often an unwanted burden. When the band came under the management of hippie activist John Sinclair, the MC5 members became poster children for his snarky White Panther Party. Sinclair is a droll presence in abundant period clips and as a present-day interview subject.

The story and tone turn disagreeably draggy and maudlin at the end when the excitement dissipates, drug use kicks in, the band members splinter and Kramer gets misty-eyed at the memory. But for anyone who's ever rocked to MC5 or its progeny, there's more than enough here to incite the cry, "Kick out the jams!"

Ted Fry: tedfry@earthlink.net