Some comedy fans argue that Andrew Dice Clay was always as much performance art as stand-up, similar to the character comedy of Pee-wee Herman and Andy Kaufman. When I interviewed Clay years ago, my impression was that if that were so, years of playing the character had seeped so deeply into his real self that the two had become blurred even in his own mind. But the relationship between an artist on and off stage is often more complicated than it seems.
The argument that his comedy has a self-consciously avant-garde streak is often supported by his 1990 album, “The Day the Laughter Died,” which he recorded at the intimate New York club Dangerfield's (now called Rodney's) over the holidays. It was a stunt, completely improvised, full of awkward silences, dirty talk, and the ramblings of a man who sounds like he's talking to himself.
TikTok Says doesn't have any foul language, but it does include a lot of awkward tension and delusional nonsense. In one post, he approaches a man with a mustache outside an airport and asks if he is mathematician Vernon Spellcheck. There's a whole subset of videos where the comedian calls people “fats” for things like wearing shorts or talking on the phone. “Boss, no hat,” he tells the pedestrians running through what appears to be Central Park West.
Andrew Clay Silverstein, a Jewish kid from Brooklyn, began his career with an act in which he imitated a nerdy Jerry Lewis guy from “The Nutty Professor” and then transformed into a John Travolta figure. In the end, the cocky Italian stood still while the nerd disappeared. He can see a scroll through his social media accounts as the reverse story. In the early videos, he breaks out Travolta's dance moves, but he has success performing nebbish, so he sticks with it.
There are echoes of old Clay, but usually as something to deflate. In a video from the week before Thanksgiving, he enters Whole Foods and launches into a dirty Mother Hubbard nursery rhyme, a one-man performance. Turning his beloved children's rhymes into dirty jokes was once his trademark, earning roars from stadiums. Just before the punchline, the audience is distracted and Clay stops. The stranger apologizes and says, “I wasn't listening.”
On one album, Clay turned down a public request to do nursery rhymes. She now volunteers it to people who don't care and publishes the results. His comedy has been so polarizing that it's easy to overlook how talented he is: the timing of his delivery, the undeniable presence. Even if you hate him, it's hard to deny that the guy is fun to imitate: You hear his influence in the voices of Natasha Lyonne (who mentioned him in her “Russian Doll” series) and the comedian. Robby Hoffman. There was nothing exactly like Clay before him. And there is nothing exactly like his current hypnotic feeding. I am captivated by the ease with which he humbles himself without becoming maudlin.
