John Sinclair never needed anyone’s approval.

He wasn’t concerned with optics, popularity, or being the most respectable activist.

Quite the contrary, he was a walking contradiction that only made sense to those with a strong grasp of Detroit:

Dangerous yet sharp as a blade – one-part jazz monk, one-part political arsonist, one-part poet and street philosopher.

John Sinclair wasn’t from any elite university or highbrow art scene. 

He was from Flint, came to Ann Arbor, and bled in Detroit, the place he’d plant his boots and put down roots – an area where rebellion needed bravery more than it needed permission.

His language was rhythm mixed with words: first through jazz, aka the syncopated, improvised truth-telling of Black America, then with poetry, which Sinclair considered to be a weapon, a mirror, and a scream. 

He managed the infamous group MC5 not just to sell records, but to make revolution possible through music – something they accomplished with artillery guitars and live shows that were more like sermons than performances. 

Through his White Panther Party, Sinclair proudly stood with the Black Panthers, offering structure, brains, and a platform that rebranded counterculture with a classic Detroit edge: raw, fast-moving, and principled.

That is until it all came tumbling down.

Sinclair received ten years in prison in 1969 for selling two joints to an undercover cop – an extreme sentence many believe was handed down because of his activism work.

It was a move that was not without its backlash.

The “man” wanted to turn Sinclair into an example, but instead, they turned him into a martyr. 

Three days after John Lennon, Yoko Ono, Stevie Wonder, and Allen Ginsberg held a protest concert outside his cell, Sinclair left prison smiling, unbroken, and unapologetic.

His sentence had stirred up immense outrage and momentum, and laws started to change in the face of it. 

Eventually, the headlines faded, but Sinclair never softened.

He spent the rest of his life doing what most men only ever pretend to do: living by a strong moral code. 

He did radio shows, poetry open mic performances, taught history in the back rooms of record stores and cafes, and at one point even sued the federal government and won.

He also attended Michigan’s first Hash Bash and lived long enough to legally buy cannabis from a dispensary in the same state that once locked him up for it when it became legal there in 2019.

It was a true full-circle moment.

John Sinclair died at the age of 82 in April 2024 in Detroit. 

His death brought no parades. 

No prime-time retrospectives aired. 

And yet, his legacy can still be found in every Detroit dive bar and poetry open mic night, in every radical newspaper archive, every punk record, and every unfiltered rant about freedom.

The system never domesticated him. 

The market never commodified him.

And Detroit never let him go.

Sinclair was not a saint.

Saints ask for forgiveness, and John never asked for anything. 

Instead, he stood tall, flawed, and resilient, not because he wanted to be celebrated, but because he wanted those around him to wake up – to live more freely, truthfully, sharply.

For that, he’ll never be forgotten.

Victoria Jackson (Editor In Chief)

Victoria Jackson is a lifelong student and sharp-eyed documentarian of all things Detroit, from its rich musical roots and cultural icons to its shifting neighborhoods, storied architecture, and underground legends. With her finger firmly on the pulse of both the city’s vibrant past and its rapidly unfolding future, she brings a deeply personal, historically grounded lens to every piece she writes.

Published on: June 26, 2025