Reissues of Decline of the Western Civilization documentaries worthy of near-mythical reputation

However, the chances are that they’ve not actually been able to see the films: having never made it to DVD until now, the films have remained unseen for years, apart from poor quality VHS copies and Youtube clips of less than officially endorsed origin. Now they’re back in business as a deluxe box set combining all three films with plentiful extras. They turn out to be well worth the near-mythical reputation they’ve accrued during their years-long disappearing act.

Filmed between 1979 and 1980 after Spheeris - who was working as a teaching assistant at UCLA after stints as a TV comedy director and producer - chanced into some funds to finance the project, the original Decline of the Western Civilization's portrayal of the burgeoning LA hardcore punk milieu might be the most conventional music doc out of the three films, albeit with an added, intense interest in the fans. The bands are captured both on and off stage, the camera lingers on the manic energy of the audiences at punk gigs, occasional commentators from within and without the scene pop in to provide context by discussing such issues as the origin of the pogo dance. Fans (including a youthful Pat Smear of Nirvana and Foo Fighters fame) get to have their say, too, in a room lit by a single bare bulb, possibly as a nod to punk's back to basics ethos but more likely as a direct result of the shoestring status of the undertaking.

As portrayals of music scenes go, the first Decline... is pretty much unbeatable. It's easy to see why one intense young fan compares the hardcore bands seen here to the untamed spirit of the early rock 'n' roll. If you've never been convinced by the musical merits of punk rock, you might be won over by the relentless energy and raw power of Black Flag and the Circle Jerks. The genre barrier-bashing brilliance of the musically eclectic, rockabilly-referencing X, meanwhile, proves nothing short of a revelatory burst of rock action. The sorry state of the Germs's permanently booze- and dope-addled, Iggy-channelling frontman Darby Crash, meanwhile, speaks volumes of the less healthy aspects of the underground scene, as well as hinting at the stresses of performing in settings where the police frequently crash the party and violence in and from the audience is a distinct possibility.

"There's no bullshit and no rock stars," young punk fan Eugene Tatu outlines the appeal of the original LA hardcore punk scene at the onset of the first Decline of the Western Civilization film. There are plenty of both in the trilogy's next instalment.

Fast forward seven years to 1987's Part II: The Metal Years, and the close bond between the bands and their audience is a distant dot in the rearview mirror of a limousine. On the late-80's LA 'hair metal' scene depicted in this enduring cult classic, everybody is a Rock Star, a bona fide golden god, whether their achievements or talents merit such an inflated, untouchable status. Depending on how much sympathy you manage to extend to the stereotypical rock 'n' roll lifestyle espousing, ozone-destroying hair product-bingeing, leather pants and spandex-sporting caricatures, it's either hilarious or deeply tragic to hear various never-would-be bands bang on about their imminent superstardom and total lack of Plan B’s when we've just heard them perform their profoundly mediocre - or worse - stuff to largely indifferent audiences in sleazy pay-to-play Hollywood rock holes.

Established acts (more of the wit and wisdom of Lemmy and Alice Cooper wouldn't have gone amiss amidst some of the more reality-averse pronouncements) pop in for rock 'n' roll war stories and general commentary. Cameos from newly sober Steven Tyler and Joe Perry of Aerosmith, seemingly still shell-shocked after years of industrial scale chemical abuse, a thoroughly befuddled but hugely charming Ozzy Osbourne and, in an unforgettable reminder of the occasionally fine line between unintentional comedy and harrowing tragedy, a death-defyingly hammered Chris Holmes of WASP, just about managing to float on an air mattress in his mum's swimming pool without holding on or drowning, downing a quart or so of vodka whilst struggling not to spurt out the exact magnitude of self-loathing his success has brought, bring a bit of perspective about the potential price of the fame all the identikit wanna-be bands are chasing at any cost. Or as lead singer David St Hubbins puts it in This Is Spinal Tap (the nearest cinematic equivalent of the Metal Years, although this tour bus perennial isn’t intent on laughing at its subject, no matter how ridiculous their attire or attitudes might seem, especially from the vantage point of 2015), "too much f***ing perspective."

It’s not just the bands, either; the beer-swilling crowds wondering around the Sunset Strip in search of rock action – who get equal time in the camera’s glare to the musicians - want to be Rock Stars, too, with the sense of tightknit community and self-expression evident on the anti-materialistic early 80's punk scene replaced by crushingly predictable musical templates - screeching vocals? Check. Speed limit -breaking guitar solo? Check - and a relentless pursuit of the Big Time. Even more shocking from a modern perspective than some of the outfits and haircuts is the scene's attitude to women. From the profoundly crass lyrics of sub-sub-sub-Guns 'n' Roses (the one truly special band to emerge from this scene) - clones Faster Pussycat to Paul Stanley of Kiss - self-awareness button firmly on 'off' position - being interviewed whilst chillaxing in bed with scantily clad 'laydeez', whilst his colleague Gene Simmons is filmed ogling at similarly semi-nude women at a lingerie shop, large sections of this grimly fascinating film bring to mind another scene from Spinal Tap, the one where the merits of the guitarist’s vision for an album cover are questioned by the management.

Nigel Tufnel (guitar): "What's wrong with being sexy?"

Ian Faith (band manager): "Sex-IST, Nigel. It's sexist."

Ten years on, the life of fame and fortune chased by the would-be rock stars of Sunset Strip is an almost obscenely distant prospect. Coming from abusive homes and often burdened with substance abuse issues after extended periods of homelessness, the original '77 British punk rallying call of "no future" is all too real to the mainly teenage 'stars' of the third, final and possibly finest Decline... film. The loose 'gutter punk' movement the film depicts is aptly named, because the predominantly underage fans and - in the case of The Resistance, the most engaging of the acts featured here - even the bands struggle to scrape together a meagre existence on the uncaring streets of Los Angeles with no home, no money, no job and no one but each other to look out and care for them. In this context, the rundown apartment, tiny disability benefit and active parental contact of one of the characters constitute an almost unimaginably stable situation.

The film quickly gives up on even pretending it's about music; this time around, the gigs and the bands are just one aspect of the lives of the only people the camera really cares about, the fans. This might explain why it's remained unreleased until now; an unflinching, compassionate portrayal of destitute young people rejected by both their parents and a society that's hardened to the point where any pretence of a 'safety net' for those who've fallen on hard times has become a laughably fanciful concept might be a hard sell for audiences expecting more unintentionally comic rock 'n' roll capers. However, the decision to focus on the fans quickly proves its biggest asset.

It could be argued that the sounds at the centre of the 'gutter punk' scene simply don't merit much attention. On this evidence, at a time when easier-going bands such as Green Day turned similar points of reference into a mainstream concern, hardcore punk had hardened to a shrill, humourless harangue of unappealingly relentless aggression that had no room for, say, the open ears and musically astute minds of X or the high spirits of the Circle Jerks, as seen in the first Decline... film. Tellingly, one band is filmed showcasing their diverse musicianship backstage, only to revert to nuance-free, vein-bulging aural battery on stage, as the scene's unwritten rulebook probably dictated, with their political messages presented in a hectoring style that's not so much finger-pointing as bashing you around the head with a lead pipe.

Thankfully, the fans provide all the humour and thoughtfulness missing from the music, even as the immeasurably sad and troubling aspects of their lives are brought to light as the initial couldn't-care-less fronts gradually dissolve. In a master class of documentary-making, Spheeris slowly sucks the viewer into the lives of her subjects who've long since given up on responding to anything but their street nicknames, which makes the final reel's vivid illustration of the costs and the risks of a life on the outer margins of society all the more shocking and heartbreaking. It's borderline criminal that such an engaging and moving film has remained unseen until now; a whole lot more than another music doc, Decline of the Western Civilization III deserves to be ranked alongside 2000's Dark Days as a superb portrayal of marginalised communities and life prevailing in the toughest of circumstances.