Long before 2003's Afro-Punk documentary and its ensuing music fest, a mighty movement of black alternative rockers was in full flower. Bad Brains, Fishbone, Bus Boys, Defunkt - these were Afro-Punk godfathers, with Me'Shell NdegéOcello and TV on the Radio following in funky pursuit.

And don't forget author/rapper Saul Williams, who headlined this year's Afro-Punk fest Friday at the TLA on South Street.

Philadelphia has a rich Afro-Punk history, considering leather-clad Pure Hell's claim as the first all-black-all-punk band since its 1976 inception. After them came locals such as Stiffed, Goats, Phil Moore Brown, and the Baptist Preachers.

With wild diversity as the movement's driving force, it was a shame that Friday's gig with MC Williams had a teensy audience - particularly galling since his smashing opener, West Vienna, featured members of the now-defunct Phil Moore Brown. (Sadly, the brassy Black Landlord, made up of ex-Goats, canceled because of injury.) Though laced with cornball BMX bike presentations and corporate sponsorship, Williams and West Vienna made a brilliant display of Afro-Punk's full circle.

Williams' confrontational material is always incendiary and hot-button. His delivery is frenetic and theatrical, with a voice resembling Jimi Hendrix's sing-speak. But in Friday's guise of "Niggy Tardust" - a take on David Bowie's glam-era androgyne - Williams let his freak-flags fly.

The bleak industrial blues of "Convict Colony" and the bass-droning ambience of "Coded Language" were elegantly ire-filled. Each pronouncement was as magnetic as his appearance - Bowie-like face paint and feathers, with as much of a warrior's machismo as there was a glam stance. For all of Williams' righteous ranting, the most "punk" thing he did was tell management to take down the corporate signage. "That ain't Afro-Punk," he said.

While American Fangs opened with a set more punk than Afro-anything, West Vienna - in its debut live performance - stole the show's musical end from Williams. With a muscular sound of repetitious Can-like rhythms and a saxophone's skronks and sub-tones behind them, rappers Gravy Thomas and Shaun howled, crooned, and chattered their way through smart, positivist poetry and skewered jazz.