Der Bingle once remarked that American popular music was a twentieth century rarity in making “giant strides in reverse.” Crooner Crosby died only three years before 22-year-old Darby Crash (Shane West, also co-executive producer), founder and glue of L.A. punk band The Germs and now glue of writer-director Rodger Grossman’s What We Do Is Secret. Centering on that scarily destructive leader, this biopic noisily traces the rise and implosion of group and groupies in a City of Angels cocktail of nihilism, show neo-fascism, and drugs with an alcohol chaser. Those who followed that scene swear it was truly like that thirty years ago.

While some non-fans may find here a social document, most should beware of a high-decibel obscenity assault on the ears and a preening hedonistic attack on the sensibilities -- precisely what that shock rock movement wanted. Inventing, continuously to re-invent themselves, the Germs grew in stature and ratcheted up the antics and stakes as they and their fans’ riotous behavior got them banned from every under- and above-ground club in the area. So much so that, when Penelope Spheeris (Michele Hicks) included them in the funny but valuable first of her two rockumentaries on The Decline of Western Civilization, the performance was actually shot before an audience on a soundstage.

Opening, and sporadically reappearing throughout, is a b&w close-up of Crash -- the rest is dark, blue-dominated color -- responding to voiced prompts about his Nazi paraphernalia, opinions and lyrics. Other interviewees’ comments about his wide reading, and seconds of his soulful blond towhead childhood immersed in Nietzsche, supposedly excuse “I can admire Hitler (but not killing all those innocent people)” and the assertion that he is the no-nonsense leader to right the nation. Brief inexplicable caricature moments of his OD’d real or stepdad and older brother and abusive alky mom in theory furnish reasons for his “doesn’t make it un-weird” personality, while pimply admirer and homosexual love interest Robby Henley’s (Ashton Holmes) glimpse of Crash’s “gifted insightful” notebook scratchings is intended to illuminate a hurting beautiful person.

A noble refusal, it seems, to take a depressed rich girl along to drug death, is here to soften, too, ironically overshadowed by the assassination of John Lennon. In the end, however, little is done to make the mercurial young man palatable. One cares about him and the music, or not, depending on prior inclination. To its credit, the film is not concerned with selling either, so any attempt at background is purposely skimped. Aphrodite from sea foam -- or Death from Night -- the man, the music, the misery, spring full-blown trailing no palpable past. The moment is now.

Friends at a Santa Monica school program for troubled teens, Jan Paul Beahm (to become Bobby Pyn before settling on Darby Crash) and George Ruthenberg (Rick Gonzalez), renamed Pat Smear, are snared by punk/glitter rock, the New York Dolls, Ramones (see End of the Century: The Story of the Ramones), Kiss and particularly pomp rock Queen. Why the soft-spoken Pat stays the course is anybody’s guess, as under Crash’s erratic head and braggadocio they attract, use, discard a succession of wannabes, but more or less constants are Deborah-Harry-ish bass guitarist Lorna Doom née Terry Ryan (Bijou Phillips) and short worshipful stooge drummer from Arizona Don Bolles (Noah Segan).

Others in the revolving door supply food or booze or drugs or cash. For their last gig together, boyish Pat spends a saved-up $125 for his first personal guitar, but for the longest time they have no instruments -- a borrowed guitar is stolen -- and, anyhow, don’t know how to play. For his comebacking ‘80s heavy metal drummer in the upcoming The Rocker, Rainn Wilson learned that showmanship, “pyrotechnic trick sticks,” trumps talent. So, too, the Germs, with disruptive performances that involved self-slicing, thrown bottles and confectioner’s sugar, obscenities, angry audience interchanges, power percussion beats, hate-filled screamed indecipherable lines.

With a mumbo jumbo blue circle that is the logo of their one album for Slash Records, a fraternity of cigarette burns inside the left wrist, and FCC-license threatening rants on Pasadena’s KROQ-FM “Rodney on the Rock,” they have arrived. But they are non grata, even at the raucous club of Brendan Mullen (Ray Park), whose literary bent and brogue are unnecessarily subtitled. Adam and the Ants in his bonnet, Crash flies off to London, where he discovers that punk is alive and well.

He returns, and The Germs gives one last Starwood reunion show. Cold or tired, the others go their separate ways afterwards -- and subsequently to Nirvana, Foo Fighters, Pearl Jam and other less problematical bands -- leaving lonely Crash outside Oki’s-Do fast food joint. Within hours, he will be an upside-down crucified image. Fade to credits, to David Bowie’s “You’re a rock n’ roll suicide.”

Relentless jumpy editing (Ross Albert, Joel Platch), pounding volume and bright but dark-muted colors contribute to the sense of chaos heading towards either disaster or nothing. Followers will find their fill in What We Do Is Secret. Others will wonder at the attempt to find sense in the senseless. 

(Released by Vision Films and rated “R” by MPAA.)