Andrew Dice Clay
Filth (Dicemanrules.com)
by Suzanne Kammlott
Whether you’ve always ignored him, or are part of a dwindling handful of knuckleheads who continue to cheer him on: Andrew Dice Clay, self-proclaimed “Heavyweight Comic of the World,” is back in the stand-up ring.
The only comedian to sell out Madison Square by telling his testosterone frenzied fans, “You’re a buncha fuckin’ scumbags!” only to get an affirming, fascist fist-waving ovation in return, Clay has turned a rotten, loud-mouthed attitude into a lucrative asset. Now, 15 minutes and a receding hairline later, the rhinestone-studded, black leather jacketed, neck-cracking, contorted, chain-smoking Bad Boy from Brooklyn is back on the mat, looking for laughs. Good4Him!
Filth, Andrew Dice Clay’s latest three CD set with bonus tracks, is sold exclusively via the Internet and TV. It’s what you’d expect from a guy whose made a good living pissing people off and he owes it all to his audience; “This is the album that record companies were too afraid to release. I dedicate this one to the fans.” Written and produced by Dice himself, Filth is less rock’n’roll ala Ford Fairlane, and more dirt-spewing, Dean Martin on angel dust musing over a jazzish orchestra. He even hawks these dopey greeting cards.
The CD starts with an irate, lug-headed Diceman fan and an unsuspecting ticket agent. From there, it’s a martini lounge feel, with Clay ranting on from one sick notion to the next. His random and raunchy subjects run from the personal – “Family Man;” “‘I’m tryin to get the fuckin’ bikes in the fuckin’ mini van!!!’ and my wife says, ‘Are you ready yet?,’ and I say ‘Fuck you, you fuckin’ bitch, shut your fuckin’ face!'” – to the political – “‘Monicunt’ Lewinsky;” “The balls on that chick! She’s opens her mouth and then, she opens her mouth, she’s got a mouthful of presidential goo!!” There’s a great zing to golfers, “If your husband plays golf, you can start fuckin’ everyone in the neighborhood.” He does a nifty deconstruction of Little House on the Prairie, “Yeah, Mr. Asshole Cancer!… He grabs her by the pigtails and starts fuckin’ her brains out.” His view on computers, “It’s all about whacking off, I’m tryin’ to type, ‘I wanna suck your toe – no your tit – no your toe.’ An’ when you’re done – you just hit delete.” Dice also turns Hallmark on its ass with his own pornographic version of holiday greeting cards. He sends the best: domestic abuse, incest, drunken vice, something for everyone.
These twisted tributes can be ordered from the online store, www.dicemanrules.com. It’s one-stop shopping for the well-dressed Diceman fan. And what better to wear to the Armani Cafe than your “WHACKBAG” sweatshirt?
Promotional shlock aside, if you’ve been looking for laughs with Dice, you’ve bought the wrong ticket. Andrew Dice Clay is not about laughs; he’d probably be the first to admit it. It’s about fame and vulnerability. From Filth, “You know why you come here, so you can say, ‘I’m so glad I’m not him,’ – that’s why you buy my album.” Or this poignant self-dig, “I would never see me! A filthy fuckin’ foul-mouthed… It’s awful! It’s disgusting!! I KNOW WHAT I DO!”
Brilliant, overlooked performance artist, or increasingly middle-aged con-man uncomfortable in his comic skin? Unguarded remarks like the above are scattered throughout the material, kernels of stark, deprecating, self-realization that make the Diceman worth a second listen. When he’s not a whirling adolescent dervish sputtering sick, racist, sexist expletives, there’s an honest flicker of humility, an ordinary guy in extraordinary circumstances:
“You come in here and look at me like I’m so terrible. You want to point your fuckin’ finger at me and say ‘he’s the BAD GUY!!’ Lookit me, I’m the Big Fuckin’ Bad Guy! I don’t want to be the Bad Guy! You made me the Bad Guy! You made me this way… FUCK YOU!”
If you’ve never bothered to listen between the dirty words, the dumb cunt gags and the midgets, you might check out those humble explosions of self-loathing. It’s the bitter glue that holds all the blow job and cum jokes together. It’s what makes Dice’s disgusting bit on screwing the world’s fattest woman worth wading through. There’s a real person in there, somewhere.
