It’s not a Country Club : A multipurpose Reseda nightspot is hankering to bring back the glory days when it was known for attracting top rock, pop and jazz acts.

It has little to do with country music and it’s not a club, but the Country Club in Reseda endures with a curious mix of big-time boxing, small-time bands, Persian pop stars and a regular Wednesday night devoted to fans of the Grateful Dead.

Rumors that management plans to add bingo to the list of attractions are not true:

“You can play that across the street at the Sherman Square Roller Rink,” said a bouncer at the place.

Indeed, the dense little neighborhood on Sherman Way just east of Reseda Boulevard does offer bingo--as well as various other attractions that make up a neat little microcosm of San Fernando Valley culture.

There’s the old Reseda Theater, its marquee bulging with the names of Latino films, an auto-parts place, a Filipino restaurant, a coffee shop featuring “breggfast,” the Reseda Indoor Swap Meet, a quasi-poetry house called Bebop Records and the hulking, 7-year-old Country Club, which on one recent day boasted little known heavy-metal bands with gentle names like “Erotikill.”

“A title that has ‘club’ in it creates a sort of stigma,” said club operations manager Scott Hurowitz.

“The Palace isn’t considered a club,” he said, referring to a Hollywood night spot. “Yet some people think of us as a club scene. Then, some people realize that we’re a thousand-seat concert venue. This place is really not much smaller than the Palace, but since it says Country Club , there’s a mix-up sometimes involving country music, club--and I get a lot of calls during the day asking, ‘Do you have a golf course and swimming pool?’ ”

Hurowitz, 37, was brought in last February to correct that.

“We’re rebounding now,” he said, sitting in an upstairs office, his walls decorated with everything from an autographed photo of boxer Floyd Patterson to posters of metal groups like Motorhead and a map of Reseda.

“When the music industry thinks of New York, they think of the Ritz. When they think of L.A., I want them to start thinking of the Country Club,” he said flatly.

To be sure, the Club is making a bid to return to its former days of glory--from 1980 until 1982, when it was managed by Wolf and Rissmiller Concerts and boasted such performers as Culture Club, Tina Turner, Chuck Mangione, Tom Petty, Jackson Browne, Joni Mitchell, Jerry Garcia, Roxy Music, Manhattan Transfer, Huey Lewis, U-2, Earth, Wind and Fire, Linda Ronstadt, Elvis Costello, Waylon Jennings, Jerry Lee Lewis, Herbie Hancock.

The bid is a serious one. Under Hurowitz, the Club has already begun reducing heavy-metal and “hard-core” bands from its roster and has gone from “four-walling”--hiring local talent just to pay the rent--to Mick Jagger and Prince.

Jagger used the Club to shoot his new video, “Throwaway,” on advice from music industry executives who heard from Hurowitz that the room had been remodeled. The same is basically true of Prince, who wanted a neat, private venue for the Sept. 18 post-MTV Awards concert. Hurowitz, a former drummer and concert promoter from Omaha, was floored.

“From the time I looked outside and saw how many people were lined up trying to get in that night--and then I saw Yes, Huey Lewis, Chaka Khan, Whoopie Goldberg, Bette Midler, the Cars--you name it--I knew there was cause for hope.”

It was a spectacular turn of events in the Club’s oddball history. Opened by the late entrepreneur Chuck Landis in 1980 (it’s still officially known as “Chuck Landis’ Country Club”), the place was meant to be a premiere country music tour-stop, and for a short time did attract artists like Merle Haggard and George Jones.

Landis leased the room to Jim Rissmiller of Wolf and Rissmiller Concerts in August, 1980, because, he said at the time, of an “offer so tempting I couldn’t refuse.” Landis evicted Rissmiller in 1982 in a policy dispute, and in the wake of growing community complaints that the Club attracted crime. From there, the slide began.

Although big names were still occasionally booked, the Country Club “started to lose its prestige,” Hurowitz said. In 1986, Canoga Park businessman John J. Mancini was convicted of soliciting the murder of a competitor--with discussion of the “job” taking place in the Club parking lot. This did not help matters.

Complaints Died Down

In 1984, a group of local business people called the Reseda Revitalization Corp. tried to persuade a city zoning appeals board to revoke Landis’ permit to operate the Club. Restrictions on occupancy and closing hours were imposed for a time, but in 1985, after a city-ordered security beef-up, a lid on parking-lot parties and the addition of a kitchen, trouble complaints subsided.

Today, as Capt. John Higgins, commanding officer of the West Valley Area LAPD put it, “we hardly hear anything about that place anymore. There really isn’t anything that has gone on there recently that has been a problem.”

More welcome words would be hard to imagine for Hurowitz. He had enough trouble trying to persuade the creme de la creme of the music industry to reconsider the Country Club.

In conversations at various music industry functions, executives told him: “You know, Scott, that room is a great room--it has the best sound, the best seating, but you know what? Your location stinks.”

Hurowitz bristled, reminded them that it’s the only concert venue of its size where you can sit , get a drink and watch the show--and challenged them to drive “an extra 15 or 20 minutes” from Hollywood to see the “new” Country Club. Ten days later, he got a call from Prince’s people, asking to arrange the post-MTV show.

Now, more major events are in the works. MTV, Hurowitz said, plans to shoot its New Year’s Eve special at the Club. Seven major acts--including Belinda Carlisle, the Eurythmics, Poison, Loverboy--will be taped Dec. 13-15 at the Club for New Year’s Eve broadcasts. Further, Hurowitz is trying to arrange a special U-2 “home again” show because the group made its Southern California debut on the stage of the Country Club.

Meanwhile, the diminutive Hurowitz has cultivated the sizeable Persian audience in Southern California with artists like Shoreh (“she’s like a Madonna of the Persian rock market”) and Siavesh, a well-known veteran Persian singer.

Finally, there’s the new “Club Dead--West,” the Los Angeles equivalent of a weekly powwow of Deadheads in New York City, which features videos and tape-trading (“It’s a party for these people,” Hurowitz said. “It’s a nice thing; they’re not a rowdy crowd.”)

“Oh yeah, and we’re gonna paint the outside--put an awning up,” Hurowitz said excitedly. “I mean, it’s gonna look very uptown. Understated, uncluttered, non-junky. As sleek as this brick building can look. Let me tell you, it will be real nice for Reseda.”

Since the passing of the old Olympic Auditorium downtown, there are really only two places in the city that feature regular boxing: the Forum, and the Country Club. On the last Tuesday night of each month, the Country Club attracts boxing fans Sylvester Stallone, Gene Hackman, Michael J. Fox, Tony Danza, Michael Landon, Heather Locklear, James Caan and Cheech Marin.

And although Hurowitz admits that “boxing is important to us, but we would survive without it,” ringside seats do go for $40--and the place usually sells out. “They probably make more money on boxing night,” said one observer, “than they do on heavy-metal night.”

While that could not be confirmed, one thing that was clear, according to security men, is that the boxing crowds are “nicer” than the rock crowds. On a recent fight night in Reseda, in fact, there were a few families at tables, yelling encouragement to the sluggers in the ring--and no shortage of highly coiffed, statuesque women straight out of “Eye on L.A.” In the Club’s up-and-down history, the fights have been a mainstay.

“This is really a great place for boxing,” said LAPD investigator Vince Scott, a regular on Tuesday nights. “They’ve probably done so well here that they’ve almost outgrown the place.”

Scott shouted to be heard above the crowd, and above the slamming of leather into muscle. “This is boxing that you can bring your family to. It’s intimate; it’s a nice crowd here. I’m a policeman, and I would never have gone to the Olympic.”

Fitting for Cagney, Bogart

On a recent Tuesday, there was a touch of Vegas in the air. Or of Hollywood. If the scene was in black and white, Bogart would have fit right in. Or Jimmy Cagney. If boxing is anachronistic, as the likes of Howard Cosell insist, then the Country Club’s boxing night is a very convincing time capsule. The air was thick with smoke and testosterone. Men hammered each other. Fans screamed. Ladies stared, mesmerized.

And the fights were not just throwaways. Sure, there are minor leaguers on their way up (or down)--but Frankie Duarte has fought there, and so has Ray “Boom Boom” Mancini and North American Boxing Federation Middleweight Champion Michael Nunn. What happens here affects international rankings. Said Nunn, who was standing in the lobby:

“I don’t think there is any place in the country better for boxing than the Country Club. I got my start here. I helped build this house. Now I feel comfortable; it’s like a big family here. Good security. I never heard of anybody being mugged.”

“There’s almost a nightclub atmosphere here,” said Ann Goosens, whose late husband, Al, founded the Ten Goose boxing club--the outfit that organizes the Country Club matches.

“Everyone seems to know the fighters. Regulars come back here all the time. And I think boxing has really changed a great deal. There are many women here. The children enjoy it.”

In the core of the crowd was a table occupied by James Caan, actor Victor French, a few friends, and boxer Mancini. Dressed in leather, Mancini was fairly besieged by well-wishers--mostly of the well-coiffed female variety. He signed autographs: “God bless you,” “love and happiness . . .” People around him screamed at the fighters, “Mess him up!” and more colorful bits of advice.

Mancini barked above the din: “It’s like the old times here--it’s small, it’s a smoke-filled room. You feel like you’re part of it.”

Behind him sat Blanche Cornejo, a lanky 22-year-old blonde in a flaming red dress. Mancini signed her program, wishing her “much joy and happiness throughout her life” in the process.

“This is my first time here,” said Cornejo. “I’ve never seen boxing live before.” Did she like it? She pointed at Mancini and grinned, “I do. I just met him .”

Laura Lehmann--”The Lovely Laura Jane” of roller derby fame--sat nearby, listening to her friend, Cornejo, and laughed: “There are more women here tonight than usual. It must be because of Boom Boom here. They’re all drooling.”

Mancini seemed unruffled, more interested in pugilism than pretty girls. “Who would have ever thought it?” he yelled. “Boxing in the Valley. But it’s here--a good night’s entertainment for the kids, and you can still get ‘em home for bed.”

Entertainment, Ray? Kids?

“If you’re a fighter,” he said, “you’re an entertainer. This is live drama right here.” He looked up at two clumsy heavyweights throwing more punches at air than flesh--a rare bad fight on the Ten Goose cards--and added, “or bad comedy.”

He stood up to leave, only to be mobbed. “You gonna fight Comacho, champ?” somebody shouted.

“Oh yeah,” said Boom Boom. “Gonna do a job on him.”

The scene on a recent Friday night was enough to make one question which is more frightening--a boxing match, or Valley kids dressed for a rock ‘n’ roll show. It was an MTV video version of inmates from Bedlam. Jet black hair, black nails, tattoos, rat’s-nest hairdos, sullen, chalky faces, skin-tight, low-cut, semi-tattered--in they came.

Despite the ghoulish appearances of these young people, they turned out to be--like it or not--nothing more than a bunch of Valley kids out for a night on the town. Many of them wore braces. The evening fare: the L.A. Guns, Fire, Fun House, and Chalette--a bevy of local bands duking it out for fame and fortune.

A poster inside the lobby invited all to return the following Sunday for a filming of “The Decline of Western Civilization II--the Metal Years.”

Seems the producers knew their audience. The kids, looking mostly like turnaways from a graveyard, about half-filled the Country Club, sipping drinks (identifications were carefully checked) and watching videos of screaming people who looked like them. The Grateful Dead’s video, “Touch of Gray,” which featured discernible words and melody, was quickly switched away in favor of Motley Crue.

At 8:30, one of the bands fired up. Although this was not heavy-metal night, the metal was heavy enough--lending ample credence to the sign in the box office, “Sound levels inside may cause hearing impairment.”

“People come here to scan the guys,” screamed Karen, 16, who said she doesn’t go to school, but proudly added that she has a full-time job. “It would be stupid if they cut back on the local bands. This club is partly responsible for the success of Poison.”

Karen and other kids voiced fear over reports that Hurowitz plans to go for more major-league acts, and to relegate local talent possibly to Monday or Tuesday nights.

“People can’t go on weeknights,” bleated Jody, 14, above a bass guitar that sounded like distant bombs. “What makes the bands big in the first place is us .”

Up near the stage, a group of about eight girls--dressed as though they just came from the San Francisco Hookers’ Ball--clustered at the feet of the writhing rockers on stage, staring up worshipfully. Many had little black X’s on their hands--signs that they were too young to drink.

“If you can’t travel all the way to Sunset to hit the Roxy or the Whiskey, then this is the only place to go,” said Monica, a 15-year-old with braces. “It’s a fun place, and I’ve never seen anything bad happen.”

A security guard who asked not to be identified did see something bad happen, he said, a couple weeks ago. “It was a whole-out riot ,” he said. “It was metal night, and people were slammin’ into each other--you know, slam-dancing. The cops are too slow, so we went across the street to where the Hell’s Angels hang out. They came over and helped out and everything stopped.”

Such events, perhaps, will diminish as Country Club promoter Nellie Aloun tapers off most lesser known heavy-metal groups, as well as so-called “hard-core” bands. And apparently, such “slamming” incidents have become quite rare. Most others at the Club--from ticket takers to bouncers and concert-goers--had nothing as ominous to report.

The worst thing that Sandy Landis--Chuck Landis’ daughter-in-law--has seen in six months of Club tending bar was, as her husband and co-Club manager Tim Landis put it, “on Persian night when some guy urinated in a trash can because I guess he was drunk. My wife was standing there, so he looked over at her and gave her a tip--because she was so embarrassed.”

Meanwhile, back at the concert, Karen was still upset at the thought of local bands giving way to big names. She said, though, that she would still come out for non-local bands--provided the prices stay within reason.

“This has been an important place to us for the last few years,” she said.

Her friends nodded. And the bands played on.