BY BRIAN MCCOLLUM
FREE PRESS POP MUSIC WRITER

In 1995, the Detroit hip-hop scene was booming, blessed with a parade of inventive rappers who played to packed crowds week in and week . . . Hold up. Stop the tape.

Moviegoers watching "8 Mile," which opened Friday with Eminem in his first starring role, may be transfixed by the breathless onscreen action, set in Detroit seven years ago: Clubs jammed with fervent fans. Edgy rap battles between sublimely gifted emcees. A progressive radio culture eager to support local music.

Alas, for those who were there, reality wasn't so romantic. Finding good Detroit hip-hop in the mid-1990s was often an exercise in patience. Many young rappers were loathe to innovate, mimicking the commercial sounds out of L.A. and New York. Local stations mostly ignored hometown artists. Hip-hop showcases at clubs like the Shelter and the Palladium -- including nights with Eminem -- usually played to sparse audiences.

In a 1997 Free Press story headlined "Detroit's Hip-Hop Blues," rapper Uncle Ill, a member of Da Ruckus, sounded a common lament.

"If you write anything about Detroit hip-hop," he grumbled, "write about the lack of support."

The creators of "8 Mile" have stressed that despite all appearances, their movie isn't an Eminem biography. Still, it's clear the film is aiming for historical authenticity: dropping the right insider names, portraying the right backstreet locales, playing the right hit tunes of the day.

It even features little-known elements drawn directly from Eminem's past, like a 1993 incident on Woodward in which Em and his friend Proof were arrested for nailing a pedestrian with a paintball. (Charges were dropped when the victim failed to appear in court.)

So for those who were in the thick of things -- including acts still struggling for that big break -- comparing personal recollections with the film's larger-than-life dramatization will prove irresistible.

Director Curtis Hanson says he solicited advice from many of the locals cast in the film, including veteran rappers such as Proof and Miz Korona. "All those people had input into the look and feel of the time," he explains.

But just how accurate is the final picture?

One of the biggest bones of contention may lie in the depiction of WJLB-FM (97.9). Onscreen, the station is portrayed as a benevolent wonderland for local musicians, and characters speak of it in reverent tones. In fact, WJLB has long been criticized and even picketed by Detroit artists who say the station ignores up-and-coming native talent.

"You know, that was pointed out, but we went with it anyway," says Hanson. "There were mixed feelings about it, actually. Some felt that way and others didn't."

OF COURSE, "8 MILE" wouldn't be such a hot thrill ride if it stuck with reality. That would make it a documentary, not a Hollywood blockbuster. The truth is, hip-hop in Detroit, circa '95, wasn't always the stuff of high drama.

There was good music brewing, to be sure. Eminem was getting his legs, and names like Jay Dee, Truz and Bizarre were earning respect. For the most part, though, it was a tight, exclusive circle.

If Detroit enjoyed any hip-hop reputation beyond Michigan, it was for a sound often chalked up as novelty: bombastic rap boiled in hard rock and peddled by acts such as Esham, Insane Clown Posse and Kid Rock. That wing of local hip-hop, the most prominent and commercially lucrative of the time, maintained an uneasy relationship with purists on the scene, who saw it as a suburban product. The "8 Mile" version of 1995 pays it no attention.

"Back then, the Eshams and ICPs could get crowds, but other than that, the local artists just struggled," recalls Mark Kempf, who edited the local hip-hop mag Underground Soundz and briefly managed Eminem.

Rapper Hush, formerly of Da Ruckus, remembers it as an era when a handful of top-notch rappers and DJs toiled in a field cluttered with weak acts.

"The hip-hop scene here was so small, and we all knew each other," he says. "The acts people were iffy about, you had a token appreciation for them, because at least they were doing something. Talent-wise, though, it was easy to know who was really doing it and who wasn't."

As for those wall-to-wall crowds featured in "8 Mile," packed into the Shelter for hours of late-night hip-hop?

"It was never like that -- never," says Hush. "It was more or less just other rappers. You never had fans showing up."

Miz Korona remembers the empty rooms.

"We were struggling to maintain the hip-hop thing here," she says.

AT LEAST ONE THEME in "8 Mile" holds up to scrutiny: Competition in Detroit could be fierce.

In early 1999, just before his national break, Eminem looked back with bitterness, recalling what he described as a backbiting Detroit scene. "It's like crabs in a bucket," he told the Free Press. "Everybody's trying to fight to get their way to the top, pulling the next one down."

That intensity fuels the film's memorable rap battle scenes, which reflect the spirit, if not the precise picture, of nights at places like Ebony Showcase and the Hip Hop Shop. In a recent MTV interview, Eminem reflected on his old rap-battle days.

"As serious as you see me take it in the movie is how serious it was in my real life," he said. "Battling was everything. It was the world to me, and to any other emcee that's coming up. You're trying to make a name for yourself, you're trying to make a rep. That's what it is. That's your world."

In the movie, Eminem's Jimmy Smith Jr. and his posse bump heads with a rival hip-hop outfit; their tensions escalate into violence. But the Detroiters interviewed for this story say that assaults among rival crews were usually confined to lyrical engagements onstage.

Whatever cutthroat atmosphere lingered around the circle, a sense of camaraderie ultimately reigned -- a familiar us-against-the-world Detroit attitude.

"More or less, the people who were being creative and innovative at the time were all friends," says Hush. "They vibed off each other a lot."

WHEN IT COMES DOWN TO IT, most of the real-life players won't quibble with the particulars of "8 Mile." Who wouldn't want a key chapter from their lives to be chronicled on the big screen -- and glorified, at that?

"To be honest, it was a little sugarcoated, but it brought back really fond memories," says Miz Korona. "Seeing the movie sparked a fire in me that hadn't been inside me for a while."

Certainly, "8 Mile" draws much of its power from what the audience knows going in. Sure, the film may not be Eminem's official life story, but most viewers figure they have a good idea what's ahead for Jimmy Smith Jr. after the closing credits.

And who knows -- perhaps 1995 would have felt much more dramatic in person had everyone known the massive fortunes lying just around the corner for Detroit hip-hop.

For now, even Eminem has pushed aside visions of crabs in a bucket, slipping into a sentimental mood.

"I miss those times," he said. "It definitely makes me think about where I came from, and how hard I worked to get here."