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@bennyprofane8590.bsky.social Sep 30, 2026, 1:58 PM

Look Back In Amber.

youtu.be/IzGfljGlnPo

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Bunch of music press reviews Benny Profane live/studio/charts. 1990 Eric & Ernie as ever .

MELODY MAKER, March 3 1990

BENNY PROFANE/DUMB LUCK CHARM

Imaginary

BENNY Profane must have needed their Sahara-dry sense of humour recently. While their records have been kept off the shelves by a series of business disasters, the Liverpool quartet have been forced to sit back and watch mediocrities prosper with simpler versions of their vision.

"Timebomb", for instance, with its deliciously cheap and nasty keyboards, is Inspiral Carpets for the thinking fan, a tale of everyday terror. "Beam Me Up" is half thrash and half eerie white rap, with singer Dave Jackson listing some of the more exotic perils of junk food over a galloping pulsebeat.

Not all of "Dumb Luck Charm" is so inventive. Last year's "Trapdoor Swing" was a dazzling debut, but that doesn't justify repeating its formula as closely as they have on much of this LP. Some of what's been added to that formula is obviously derivative; there are generous measures of Velvety splintered guitar and low, rumbling percussion.

But Benny Profane still leave 95 per cent of the competition looking dim and tongue-tied. Favourite themes like drunkenness and violence are treated with corrosive wit, a few new areas are explored, and on occasions the result is something wonderful and unprecedented. "Maureen" is a marvellous Mekons-like psycho-country waltz about wasted lives and domestic loathing. "Everything" gallops along, powered by increasingly berserk guitar, while Jackson elegantly describes a case of pathological consumerism. Best of all is the astonishing "Perfect Girl", a luscious but barbed ballad allegedly written for Roy Orbison - who sadly died before he got round to recording it. Few singers could stand up to the comparison-but ace crooner Jackson effortlessly conjures up the vital vibrato. With live dates supporting the Bunnymen imminent, could this be the year the world notices the brilliance of Benny Profane?

DAVE JENNINGS

BENNY PROFANE 'Dumb Luck Charm'

DESPITE THE critical acclaim afforded their 'Trapdoor Swing' debut last summer, Benny Profane have largely been overlooked since their formation from the ashes of popular Liverpool shamblers The Room.
This newly-expanded sextet's greatest attribute is their adroitness in writing a set of distinct scenarios which sum up the quirks of daily life as tightly as the best of British sitcoms. Whether tackling lean, tasty pop escapades like the surging, Hammond-imbued beat group feel of 'Time Bomb' or the elegant, yet incurably frail 'Perfect Girl'.

Surprises are plentiful but two songs are outstanding. 'Beam Me Up' mutates through chameleon hues from a Fall-enhanced pop rampage to a fascinating sprawl akin to a mini rival on the Velvets' 'The Gift', Jackson's raging dialogue meanwhile stabbing at James Brown ("...get up, stay on the scene...like a PSYCHOPATH!) over frantic, spurting chords from six-string sages Robin Surtees and Joe Mckechnie. Weirder still, are the lilting, Parisian strains of 'Maureen', enriched with accordions and fiddle.
Tim Peacock/Sounds 24/02/1990

Live Review -
Benny Profane should be kings by now instead of gentlemen (and one lady) in waiting. This injustice seems to fuel Dave Jackson's dexterous voice, adding venom to an already aggressive vocal manner. Coupled with the band's clear pop harmony, it truly is a sound for sore ears.

An alcoholic theme seeps through the set, dripping devilishly during "Man On The Sauce". A tale of love lost and vomit, "sprayed through your nose", it directly confronts the social myths of Britain's favourite drug.

The song that really captures the essence of BP is "Everything". Supercharged guitars with no need for overdrive spiral crystal clear, while Jackson's heartfelt plea shatters through on a killer chorus. It's the natural indie retort to 10 years of Thatcher-crap.
ZANE/MELODY MAKER 17/03/1990

@bennyprofane8590.bsky.social Sep 24, 2026, 1:03 PM

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#melodymaker
#paulmathur

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