Their mamas all warned ’em not to come into town But they got it in^their blood, now they gotta, get down

— Shakin’ Street, The MC5

Few rock 'n’ roll bands have been saddled with such import, right from the beginning, as the MC5. It’s only fitting, because they approached the rock 'n’ roll scene with guns drawn, armed to the teeth; they were gonna take over, be the Baddest Boys in the Bad Boy world of rock and roll, fuse politics with rock, dope (read: religion), and fucking in the streets and market it all as one neat package, precisely labelled: The Revolution.

They possessed roots all the way back to the Crusaders in the eleventh century, they were filled with real righteous American zeal, religious fervor, a sense of purpose and of necessity. This was the MC5, hrothers and sisters, the hottest highest energy crew of dudes to come pouring out of the bad-assed Motor City into the American cultural continuum since the halcyon days of the notorious Purple Gang. And what’s more: they meant business.

Or so it seemed.