Forget brain surgery or being Shane MacGowan's oral hygienist, the toughest job in the world has got to be that of an A&R man.

At around about the same time that I was telling everybody that Thee Amazing Colossal Men were going to conquer the world with their second album, a demo from five pasty-faced Londoners went from the Clarkian desk to bin in record time on account of its tired Bowiesms.

Eight years on the Colossals have disappeared into the ether, while those still pasty-faced Londoners have become one of the great maverick talents of the '90s.

It's to Suede's immense credit that they've managed to sidestep all the Britpop kerfuffle. Whatever masturbation Brett Anderson gets up to - calm down, chaps - it's not over The Beatles or The Small Faces.

Which means that while Oasis/Ocean Colour Scene/Shed Seven become more jaded with every outing, Anderson & Co. sound as if they could win the London Marathon and then do a lap of honour.

That said, Head Music isn't the "radical progression" that's been trumpeted in some quarters. With Perfecto man Steve Osborne producing, there are more loops and samples in evidence than there were on Coming Up, but this is still loudly and proudly a pop record.

Which is old news to anyone whose already heard the collection's flagship single, 'Electricity'. Not sure whether to update T. Rex for the new millennium or give the Pistols a glam make-over, the song does both to glorious effect.

Having given vent to that initial surge of adrenaline, Suede treat us to the slo-mo sleaze of 'Savoir Faire' which, with a more deadpan delivery, would be a ringer for U2's 'Numb'. As it is, Brett can barely contain his excitement as he tells us that the heroine of the song is "shaking obscene like a fucking machine."

Worried that his heterosexuality may be getting a little too rampant, Anderson reverts to the bottom-slapping of old on 'Can't Get Enough'.

"I feel real now walking like a woman and talking like a stone age man", he declares as the rest of the band crank up the wah-wah pedals and sprint towards the finishing line.

The only time that Suede really run into problems is when they stop being tongue - or whatever else - in cheek. If a tuneless metal dirge is what they were aspiring to with 'Elephant Man', it works a treat. Otherwise, it's a self-indulgence that really shouldn't have made it out of the rehearsal room.

It's impossible to stay angry with them for long, though. If 'Electricity' is Suede at their most anthemic, 'He's Gone' demonstrates that there are few other bands capable of such raw, heartfelt balladry.

You can almost taste the five o'clock in the morning despair as Brett intones, "Tears on a pillow, eyes on the 'phone/You pour all the love that you keep inside into a song."

I've been living with Head Music for two weeks and I'm still not totally sure what to make of 'Hi Fi'. While on first inspection a jumble of Kraftwerk/Fad Gadget/Iggy-goes-to-Berlin noise, repeated plays reveal a song with a distinctly human heart. Not exactly Top of the Fops but, if Suede are ever serious about wanting to reinvent themselves, this is an autobahn they should explore further.

In much the same way that people are beginning to realise that the Celtic Tiger isn't without its genetic flaws, 'Crack On The Union Jack' exposes Cool Britannia for the spin-doctored nonsense that it is:

"Another day, another low, another midday TV show/Saw it in the news today, heard the lonely people say/'There's a great big crack in the union jack'."

A rather subdued way to wrap up an album but that's Suede for you - contrary buggers who refuse to play by any rules other than their own. They're not Thee Amazing Colossal Men but, hell, I'd sign 'em!