A Writhing L.A. Debut for Manchester’s House-Music Sound : Clubs: Star deejay Graeme Park brings records from England’s legendary Hacienda nightspot to the Mayan.

Every city gets its very own Summer of Love eventually. The sound track for this year’s model--the world-famous house-music sound of Manchester, England--made its official Los Angeles debut Friday night at the smoky Mayan dance club downtown.

Sixties-style banners hung from the Mayan’s impressive stone Meso-American deities. Scantily clothed go-go dancers writhed on platforms and, most important, Graeme Park, one of the star deejays from Manchester’s legendary Hacienda club, brought his records.

The few in the crowd who dressed for the occasion--more in the Alice in Wonderland mode of L.A.’s own floating, underground acid scene than in the bell-bottoms and sweat shirts associated with the Manchester thing--were dogged throughout the evening by news crews and photographers.

And the boom- chick beats, sketchy syncopated synthesizer fills and heavily treated female vocals that spun out over the Mayan’s overtaxed sound system were absolutely business as usual--the drony lingua franca of dance clubs all over the world.

Like punk rock, acid house--the forebear of this music--is wholly democratic in its simplicity. Its musicians need no training, no ideas, no native intelligence to become famous, just an interesting record collection, a $200 sampling synthesizer and the moxie to get up on stage.

The acid-house beat was relentless and predictable to the point that, in live shows, laymen couldn’t discern when one artist stopped and another began without looking at the stage. Plus, gigs were almost always illegal, which added an element of adventure.

The new Manchester house sound is the gentrified flip side of all that--New Wave to acid house’s punk, requiring more professional skill from the musicians but less commitment by the audience: less-specialized clothing, less-extreme lifestyle, fewer dangerous drugs.

On the dance floor Friday, the music--all supplied by records--almost, but not quite, approached that trance-like disco ideal of the beat that never ends, but the seams between songs were too clumsy and the arty bits too obtrusive. If this show is any indication, the disco portion of the Manchester thing seems less a Summer of Love than the winter of our discontent.