Radio stations and MTV mostly refuse to play the band, while critics have declared ICP the worst act in music (Blender) and dismissed the group as a modern-day minstrel act (Spin). Not surprisingly, the music industry has long treated ICP with the sort of wary contempt with which one would eye a Chinese battery landfill. It's most proudly displayed during the group's live act, in which Bruce and Utsler-both of whom hail from the suburbs-disguise themselves with black and white clown makeup and throw gangsta leans while dousing their audiences with sticky geysers of Faygo, a midwestern econo-buy soda. The ICP aesthetic is a below-brow mix of Tales from the Crypt comics gore and puerile shock-jockery. "Our shit is definitely male-oriented," Bruce says. In ICP's world, rednecks are carved up and eaten ("Chicken Huntin'"), pedophiles are stabbed in the colon ("To Catch a Predator"), and STDs get their own anthems ("Bugz on My Nugz," which is performed, in part, in the imagined style of high-pitched venereal crabs). In the two decades since Bruce and Utsler formed the group, they've churned out more than a dozen albums' worth of gleefully misogynist, cartoonishly violent songs. Of course, that's not saying much, seeing how ICP's discography comprises some of the most profoundly vile music ever made. It might even be one of Insane Clown Posse's best songs. For an ode to hygienic necrophilia, "Truth Dare" is surprisingly hummable.
The song ends, and Bruce beams in his chair.
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