THE British music press gathered recently to set the record straight once and for all. According to them, grunge music has lost the sartorial plot. Far too arrogant to accept a future of tanned, healthy looking rock stars wearing plaid, they decided the true way forward was backward. The future, they said, was raucous retroglam. Front runner by far is a band called Suede. The line-up comprises four newcomers hailed as the rock gods of the '90s before they even released their first single. To understand why four raffish waifs from Haywards Heath have been so divinely chosen is not easy. In part, this could be seen as a marketing ploy of a proud and historic industry usurped by its US adversaries. The British record companies are said to have been looking for a face and a leader in style since House music's summers of bliss ('87, '88 and'89) came to an end and the Soul II Soul sound turned sour. The timing of the Suede discovery is a key. The Indie mo vement that followed House started in the late '80s in Manchester. But groups like the Stone Roses and Happy Mondays failed to deliver the excitement needed to boost Britain from recession-induced doldrums. The lyrics emphasised togetherness, but the understated style became a byword for second rate. Eventually indifference got the better of them and they hanged themselves with their own hooded T-shirt drawstring. What was lacking, so say the music pundits, has been redeemed. The new gaunt and pasty face of rock 'n' roll has been reborn in the mould of Brett Anderson, lead singer of Suede, and his cohorts in bands like Denim, St Etienne, the Auteurs and Pulp. ANDERSON models himself on a cross between Morrissey and David Bowie (his ex-girlfriend came up with the band's name, which is based on a Morrissey song, Suedehead ). Some might say they are part of a conspiracy to rehabilitate an era that is not yet far behind us. The '70s are already back in full swing, the fashion industry is proof of that, so it is hardly surprising the indulgent glamour and hedonism of that time has been embodied in music again. The sexual ambiguity of many of the '70s rock stars is as legendary as their music. Now this limp-wristed mincing is also being aped. Anderson is already famous for describing himself, in an affected Cockney accent, as ''. . . a bisexual who has never had a homosexual experience''. Among the newest crop of musicians, the industry is hoping a move towards intelligent lyrics and strutting class acts will usher in Britain's next big thing. NOT since the days of Marc Bolan's T Rex, Bryan Ferry's Roxy Music and the spellbinding Ziggy Stardust days of Bowie has anything been as hyped or possibly as explosive. In truth, Suede was not the first. The Manic Street Preachers, who arrived on the scene in 1991, were awkwardly reminiscent of the late '70s. They wore fake fur and lurid red lipstick, but their lyrics lacked anything except bile and their wish to be loathed by everyone was quickly achieved. But the high drama of these early glam rockers was the beginning of a movement towards blurred gender references and urgent vocals. In someone like Anderson, the combination is perfectly balanced, as many say it was with Morrissey. As the first album by The Smiths was said to have been the most eagerly awaited of the decade, so too was Suede which arrived in the record shops last Monday. With 60,000 pre-release orders, it is expected to go platinum almost immediately. The Smiths may have been Britain's sacred cow, but here come the cowgirls. Never mind the grunge, watch out for raucous retro.