He was, per self-description, “The most vulgar, vicious comic ever to walk the face of the earth.” No joke.Īt 32, Andrew Dice Clay-our beloved goon-was a newly-minted cultural phenomenon, on his way to selling out Madison Square Garden two nights running, a first for a comedian. His words were sordid, as if lifted from graffiti found on a prison toilet stall, then coarsened for a less squeamish crowd. He brandished a cigarette in the ostentatious manner of an old-time hoodlum, between thumb and index finger. A cartoon of a man, he wore broad Fonzarelli sideburns and an imposing pompadour, jet-black and groomed to the standards of the French noblesse. In the waning days of the 1980s, a boorish goon in sleazy leather took the stage of an Upper East Side club to record an avant-garde comedy album.
