A Journey Into Comedy’s Inferno : Nightclubs: A look at three of the Valley’s comedy clubs shows that laughs turn into not-so-funny business.

During the early ‘60s boom in folk music, it seemed that anyone who could buy a guitar was automatically a folk singer.

Today it seems that anyone with a thick skin, double-jointed lips and a lot of brass fancies himself a comic, and fortunately--or unfortunately, depending on your sense of humor--the San Fernando Valley offers them a number of outlets. Experienced professionals have a place to try out new material, and some establishments provide a minor league training ground for aspiring stand-ups.

The following is a diary of a journey to a trio of Valley comedy spots. The material ranges from fairly sophisticated stuff to jokes that elicit only a deadly silence. One thing seems certain: The audience can count on hearing a chorus of “Give yourself a hand” almost anywhere you go.

Tuesday: Sammy’s Fireside Inn in Burbank schedules more than comedy. On Friday and Saturday nights, this neighborhood bar offers dancing to the music of an oldies but goodies band and on Thursday, Sammy’s dishes up spaghetti for $1.99. Tuesdays and Wednesdays are comedy nights.

Sammy’s, not surprisingly for a bar, also has a color television, which on this night is tuned to a baseball game between the Atlanta Braves and the Montreal Expos.

As 9 o’clock rolls around, the master of ceremonies, Rick Barker, welcomes the audience of about 14, consisting mostly of that night’s performers. He reminds them that this is a comedy show and if they don’t think any of this stuff is funny they can watch the baseball game.

Barker introduces the first act--a man named Jim who appears to be in his mid-20s--as someone who is a regular at Sammy’s.

His first joke? “I’ve got a secret to tell you--Lucy’s dead.”

The room is so silent you could hear a soggy cocktail napkin drop.

After that less than auspicious start, it is all downhill.

(Look at Time Element) The Expos aren’t doing too well either. The Braves are ahead 7-6, but Tim Raines, one of the National League’s best hitters, is up.

Meanwhile, the guy on stage is dying a horrible death. “As a child, my parents encouraged me to take candy from strangers. . . .” He polls the audience, asking if he should sit down--nobody votes.

(Time Element) Raines runs the count to 3 and 2 and strikes out.

The guy on stage should be so lucky. His act by this time has degenerated into a heavy group therapy session:

“Schoolyard bullies always used to pick on me ‘cause I was a nerd.”

(TIME ELEMENT) The next batter knocks the ball back to the box and the side is retired--no runs, no hits, no errors.

It seems like the comedian is completing his second hour on stage. But the clock says 9:15 when, finally, he makes his exit and Barker introduces the next performer. A middle-aged man named Phil takes the spotlight. He asks the crowd, “Do you want to hear something funny?” The audience yells back lustily, “Yeah.”

Phil spends a long time warming up the audience, saying things like: “A lot of good-looking women in the audience tonight,” “I really enjoy being here at Sammy’s,” “Give yourselves a hand” and “There’s a lot of good-looking men in the audience tonight, too.” The warm-up seems to help. The audience appears to like his act and he gets a nice hand for an extraordinary Humphrey Bogart impression.

The remaining acts all blur into one long descent into comic hell. Bully jokes, drug jokes, urination jokes. The faces in the audiences seem as if they are made of stone.

Someone on stage notices that I am taking notes and asks, “What are you writing down there? Are you going to start your own comedy act?” That was one of the funniest things I heard all night.

Thursday: Gallagher’s has been a fixture in the Chatsworth area for about nine years. The Irish pub schedules live rock music on Fridays and Saturdays, darts on Mondays and Wednesdays and comedy on Thursdays and Sundays. The bartender said they tried a thumb-wrestling tournament on Tuesdays but it didn’t go over.

Darts are the big thing at Gallagher’s. There are three dart boards and the walls are covered with championship plaques. But the management also has made a commitment of sorts to comedy nights, evidenced by a sparkly green curtain that serves as a backdrop for the comedians. The stage lighting is brighter than it is at Sammy’s and the TV and jukebox are turned off during performances. Most important, perhaps, is a ban on pool and dart playing during the routines.

At 9 p.m. sharp, master of ceremonies Jay Bernard delivers a rapid-fire string of one liners:

“My first day in Vietnam, I was charged by a wild beast. I think she charged me $5.”

The audience numbers about 40 and is more responsive than the crowd at Sammy’s, except for a couple sitting at the bar who are negotiating loudly. “Are you gonna pick me up, honey?” she asks.

There are fewer acts than at Sammy’s. The showcase lasts until 10:10 p.m. Some of the comics are rewarded with laughs and applause; others bomb.

Phil, the middle-aged comic from Sammy’s, is here too. Without the Braves and Expos as competition, Phil gets a better reception. “We have a lot of good-looking women in the audience tonight,” “Give yourselves a hand. . . .”

Friday: L.A. Cabaret in Encino is the triple-A club of the Valley comedy circuit. It’s a big room (seating 200) and it is devoted exclusively to comedy--no darts, no music, no spaghetti. It even has a printed program, a menu and a box office.

L.A. Cabaret has something else the other two clubs don’t--a $14 admission charge. Included in that are tickets for two drinks. The bouncer, a roundish muscular man, advises me that I can wait in line outside or I can go into the bar, buy yet another drink and be assured of a good seat when they open the showroom for the second show.

“We always let the bar people in first,” he says slyly, and I buy the drink.

The wall above the bar is covered with framed 8-by-10 black and white glossies. I don’t recognize most of the faces but occasionally a very young Gabe Kaplan, or a younger and thinner Bob Zany smiles back at me.

Finally, the showroom is opened and true to the word of the bouncer, the customers in the bar are let in first. The house is almost full, and it looks like a young crowd.

How young is it? This crowd is so young, the club owner has posted a notice on the table explaining what a “well-drink” is. (A well-drink, for the uninitiated, is one that uses the house liquor, usually not a name brand.)

Master of ceremonies Larry Omaha comes on. He’s a slick, polished professional who starts off with a series of jokes that are less than complimentary to Mexican-Americans.

Perhaps it’s the admission charge (at $14 a pop, this stuff had better be funny). Or maybe the audience just has a special affinity for comics named after cities in Nebraska. But, the crowd really loves this guy. They’re laughing at everything.

“People don’t believe that I’m Mexican, they think I’m Filipino.”

The crowd loves it.

But it’s not only Omaha. All night long, act after act is killing this audience.

Most of the comics share Omaha’s polished professionalism, although every performer seems to have at least one joke about Asians driving automobiles.

As I was leaving I saw Omaha standing alone, stone-faced and grim; a sharp contrast to his stage appearance. Laughter is a serious business.