THE SUITABLY gushing press release makes great virtue of the fact that 4 Non Blondes hail from San Francisco and follow in the same maverick musical tradition as Jefferson Airplane, Captain Beefheart and those other legendary left-fielders, The Grateful Dead.

Of the three, the Airplane comparison is perhaps the most valid with Linda Perry delivering her personal manifesto in a histrionic manner that, at times, is pure LSD-ravaged Grace Slick. Indeed, for all their hip hair extensions, body piercings and extremely silly hats, 4 Non Blondes sound as if they'd be far more comfortable playing a Haight Asbury love-in than propping up the bill at Lollapalooza.

Still, as Pearl Jam and their countless imitators will testify, being retro is no longer the hanging offence it used to be and if you want to pretend the last 20 years of rock 'n' roll history never happened, hey, these are your guys!

Casual buyers will doubtless invest in Bigger, Better, Faster, More! for the inclusion of surprise hit 'What's Up' and, as such, are likely to spend the following week thumbing through the Consumer Protection Act to see whether there are grounds to sue. It's the only track with anything even remotely resembling a memorable hook and, despite the title, ardent thrillseekers are going to find the rest of the album flatter than a hedgehog that's tried to cross the Naas dual-carriageway.

The leaden boogie stomp of 'Pleasantly Blue' and the painfully melodramatic 'Morphine & Chocolate' - which defies the space/time continuum by lasting five minutes but appearing to go on forever - are far more representative of where 4 Non Blondes are coming from. The lyrics are better than average, the playing immaculate, but for some reason the songs smoulder rather than ignite and you're left feeling that they ought to swallow their pride, and their royalty cheques, and draft in a team of outside writers who aren't quite so fire resistant.

Elsewhere and 'Dear Mr. President' savages the US establishment with all the ferocity of a toothless cocker spaniel, ''Drifting' mistakes blandness for tortured introspection and 'No Place Like Home' tries to get funky and distorted a la Faith No More but merely degenerates into a discordant mess.

The remainder of the LP alternates between tame white boy R'n'B and yuppie psychedelia which throws a few of the right shapes but simply isn't dirty or deranged enough to be convincing.

Not so much Bigger, Better, Faster, More as Blander, Duller, Turgid, Less!