Whether it’s a documentary or a biopic, the over-involvement of a subject can transform treasure into trash. Members of Queen turned themselves into blandly unimpeachable heroes by producing Bohemian Rhapsody – as did Ice Cube and Dr Dre by helping create 2015’s Straight Outta Compton. Meanwhile, projects such as Metallica: Some Kind of Monster and Anton Corbijn’s stylised Joy Division film Control didn’t give their subjects producer credits – subsequently crafting fascinating, complex portraits of the artists.

So a few moments into the Run-DMC documentary Kings From Queens, there is an unintentional jump scare when the words “executive producers Joseph ‘Rev Run’ Simmons and Darryl ‘DMC’ McDaniels” appear on screen. Thankfully, as we hear from the many talking heads who appear over the course of three hours, Run-DMC connected with people because of their commitment to honesty; even when telling their own stories, the surviving members of the group admit inadequacies, insecurities, substance abuse and how some of their greatest successes happened in spite of them. Perhaps more shocking than DMC’s candour around his alcoholism and thoughts of killing himself is that he admits to being a nerd who loves nothing more than the Canadian singer Sarah McLachlan and Spider-Man comics. Rather than psyching himself up to perform with hypermasculine posturing, the sweet-natured rapper asks: “What would Peter Parker do?”

We quickly learn that, without comics, there would have been no Run-DMC. The programme starts with their origins in Queens, New York, where Run and DMC were exemplary students in a city, as Rev puts it, then seen as “bankrupt and corrupt”. The young friends sold some of their precious comics to buy turntables. They would spend every spare moment honing their rapping and DJing skills, hoping that, once they got good enough, Run’s big brother Russell Simmons – the cofounder of Def Jam – would give them a record deal.

Soon, Jam Master Jay would join the group, his rougher background affording some much-needed street cred. As Ad-Rock of Beastie Boys says: “Jay was the nicest and had the most beautiful smile but could fuck you up quick.” There’s an acknowledgment of the interviewees’ unreliable narration, and the edit is playful, poking fun at those who brag about their contribution before cutting to a different figure saying: “Yeah, he was the intern.”

The first episode covers the group’s ascent, with talking heads and clips cut with a sharp musicality to old-school hip-hop beats. The second moves on to the height of their fame: touring the world, playing Live Aid and scoring hit after hit with My Adidas, It’s Tricky and It’s Like That. But they make clear that, Jay aside, they hated their biggest hit – the collaborative cover of Aerosmith’s Walk This Way – and are keen to correct the established narrative around it. First, that it was Aerosmith who needed Run-DMC for relevancy and not the other way round. Second, the fact that it was in no way relevant to their core audience’s lives may have led to their downfall.

At a time where they should have been on top of the world, Run became disillusioned with hip-hop’s move into gangster rap and, in 1995, became ordained as a Pentecostal minister, renaming himself as Rev Run. DMC’s mental health was on a downwards spiral, and, in 2002, Jam Master Jay was murdered in a recording studio at the age of 37. When the series tackles that tragedy in its third episode, it wisely slows momentum, feeling weighed down by grief. A large amount of its run time is handed over to Jay’s widow and three children, who share their memories of him, interspliced with home videos of the family. When those who knew him talk about his death –from LL Cool J to the Beastie Boys, plus the many producers and young rappers whose talents he nurtured – you feel the significance of his loss. It’s an honest, raw way to mourn an artist and friend without having to turn him into an angel.

But despite the programme tackling the racial politics of the time with intelligence and nuance – with an authentic depiction of this prickly group of pioneers – Russell Simmons’ inclusion is ever conspicuous. The allegations of sexual harassment and assault against the mogul (all of which he denies) are never referred to, and he appears relaxed and smiling, sharing memories of the early days of hip-hop while sat in the lotus position. He has since stepped down from Def Jam but his grinning inclusion here is at best distracting and at worst nauseating.

It’s a shame that a series about art that’s rooted in telling it like it is so brazenly sanitises Simmons. But if it’s possible to not throw the baby out with the bathwater, the story of the actual members of Run-DMC remains fascinating and raw. As LL Cool J puts it: “If there was a hip-hop Mount Rushmore with five heads on it then they’d take up three of the spots.”

• Kings from Queens: The Run-DMC Story is on Sky Documentaries and Now, with an Australian screening to be confirmed