There were not one, but two musical guests that night, Julee Cruise and the Spanic Boys. A detailed breakdown of the episode and its sketches can be found here.
On May 14, 1990, Caryn James of The New York Times had this to say about Clay's appearance:
It's impossible to tell from his ''Saturday Night Live'' appearance, which was apparently meant to be the next shrewd step in the mainstreaming of Andrew Dice Clay. With two movies (a comedy and a concert film) coming out this summer, he can no longer afford to spit out expletives on live television, the act that got him banned from MTV and bought him just the kind of bad-boy publicity that has propelled his career. But instead of testing whether he can be more than a one-note performer, the show turned into a media event that gnawed at the controversy in one toothless skit after another.
The most clever was the opening sketch, a parody of ''It's a Wonderful Life,'' with Mr. Clay threatening to throw himself off a bridge because of the fuss about his appearing as host. His guardian devil reveals what ''Saturday Night Live'' would have been without him: Ms. Dunn would have shown up and been squashed when Ms. O'Connor's amplifier fell on her. A distraught Ms. O'Connor would never show her nearly shaved head to sing in public again. ''That's too bad; she was a cute bald chick,'' says Mr. Clay in the Jimmy Stewart role.
This mild self-mocking does not begin to suggest the offensive tirade of sexism that is typical of Mr. Clay's stand-up routines, and anyone who turned on ''Saturday Night Live'' without having seen him at his most vile might have wondered what the fuss was about. His usual comments about women are mostly unprintable, but a typical one involves whiling away time in line at the bank by molesting the woman in front of him. The chain-smoking, leather-jacketed ''Diceman'' is clearly a persona, but it is a role without any redeeming irony.
Mr. Clay and the writers must have thought they were capitalizing on the controversy, instead of being sunk by it, but they made the wrong choice. The one truly funny episode was ''Ridiculous Bull,'' a black-and-white-parody of ''Raging Bull'' with Mr. Clay doing a mean impersonation of Robert De Niro as the out-of-shape boxer Jake LaMotta saying, ''Hit me with the sledgehammer, Joey. I'm your older brother, Joey, hit me with the refrigerator,'' in Mr. De Niro's nervous, repetitious delivery. The Diceman disappeared and a comic actor took over, raising new questions. Does Andrew Dice Clay have a future in the mainstream after all? And if he does, should women ever forgive him for the way he got there?
James's final questions are easily answered in 2010. Clay had no future in the mainstream, and of course, he had little future in entertainment at all after 1990, save for a few appearances here and there, mostly the type bestowed upon D-list performers. (Rumor has it, though, that Clay is now planning a comeback on the occasion of the twentieth anniversary of Ford Fairlane.). The second question, then, answers itself: women have not forgiven Clay, they have simply forgotten him, as have most denizens of popular culture. There is no worse fate in show business.