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@bennyprofane8590.bsky.socialSep 24, 2026, 1:03 PM

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BENNY PROFANE/MELODY MAKER 26/09/1987 THERE are few things worse in life than standing chest-to-toe with boring indie fan pillocks, all Brian Jones haircuts and mumbles about lan Curtis dying for you. And yet, three times in two weeks, I found myself drawn to some of London's less salubrious dens of iniquity for a group called BENNY PROFANE. Irony? They've got it by the short and curlies, matey. As the violent flowers and earthly pleasures exploded over the Liverpool of the decade's turn, a band called The Room tugged at the heart strings but ended up clutching at coat-tails, their peculiarly calm rumblings somehow never BIG enough for the tumbling scenery. These days they're Benny Profane and they're staring out the sun. Benny Profane's new single "Devil Laughing" does everything that guitar-based rowdiness should, resisting the insufferable coyness that sucks their peers into sticky guttersnipery. "Credulous As Hell" and "Stitch That" take urban paranoia and twist it into the kind of blackly absurd drama that Joseph Heller or Peter Carey might come up with. The name is itself taken from a massive tome by Thomas Pynchon, the world's most spirited communicator of the Entropy Theory, the theory that posits the universe as made up of constantly dynamic forces. The Big Bang sends everything spiralling outwards, inevitably to tug apart into oblivion. Benny Profane are surfing the entropic wave with no little style. They've all read the weighty novel, except for bassist Becky who gave up eight pages from the end of its quarter of a million words because she "got bored". At the moment Benny Profane are struggling to free themselves from operating in the kind of environment where they have to drive back to Liverpool after each London gig, and where wet liberals tell them to play quieter at benefits. Two months ago they busked for an old drunk who bought them a Guinness. Benny Profane write about churches, drinking, junk food, politics and madness. PAUL MATHUR
THERE are few things worse in life than standing chest-to-toe with boring indie fan pillocks, all Brian Jones haircuts and mumbles about lan Curtis dying for you. If we are to believe the lunatic Sutherland's pub philosophising about irony being that what separates Man from Beast, then the person who rushes out to buy hand-printed singles is no more and no less than a boulder. And yet, three times in two weeks, I found myself drawn to some of London's less salubrious dens of iniquity for a group called BENNY PROFANE. Irony? They've got it by the short and curlies, matey. As the violent flowers and earthly pleasures exploded over the Liverpool of the decade's turn, a band called The Room tugged at the heart strings but ended up clutching at coat-tails, their peculiarly calm rumblings somehow never BIG enough for the tumbling scenery. These days they're Benny Profane and they're staring out the sun. Benny Profane's new single "Devil Laughing" does everything that guitar-based rowdiness should, resisting the insufferable coyness that sucks their peers into sticky guttersnipery. "Credulous As Hell" and "Stitch That" take urban
paranoia and twist it into the kind of 7 blackly absurd drama that Joseph Heller or Peter Carey might come up with. The name is itself taken from a massive tome by Thomas Pynchon, the world's most spirited communicator of the Entropy Theory, the theory that posits the universe as made up of constantly dynamic forces. The Big Bang sends everything spiralling outwards, inevitably to tug apart into oblivion. Benny Profane are surfing the entropic wave with no little style. They've all read the weighty novel, except for bassist Becky who gave up eight pages from the end of its quarter of a million words because she "got bored". At the moment Benny Profane are struggling to free themselves from operating in the kind of environment where they have to drive back to Liverpool after each London gig, and where wet liberals tell them to play quieter at benefits. Two months ago they busked for an old drunk who bought them a Guinness. Benny Profane write about churches, drinking, junk food, politics and madness. Love their lugubrious visions, but next time YOU buy the Guinness. - PM WRITER: PAUL MATHUR