"WHO are they?" puzzled Padraic Malone, a Dublin teacher. "I've never even heard of them." It's probable that, until a few weeks ago, the rest of Ireland - and Britain - had never heard of The Cranberries either. Then the Limerick group won the country's prestigious Irish National Entertainments Award for Best International Irish Rock Band. They wrested the distinction from U2, who had claimed it for six years.

This peculiar turn of events was the result of The Cranberries having sold 1.3 million copies of their first album in America last year. They're stars over there, guitarist Noel Hogan, his bassist brother Mike, interestingly-moody singer Dolores O'Riordan and drummer Fergal Lawler. London photographer Valerie Phillips says, "I was with them in Los Angeles last month, and people were coming up to Dolores on the street and giving her gifts. They're just enormous in America."

But in Britain, where the record Everybody Else Is Doing It, So Why Can't We? has sold around 18,000, they're small fry, unfamous, relegated to indie-circuit venues like London's Astoria 2, which they play tonight. Only readers of the British music press, which championed the band floridly two years ago ("Treat The Cranberries with kid gloves and let them smother you in bluest velvet"), are likely to be there. "Europe doesn't see much appeal in us," Dolores comments drily. "There was a case of too much hype too soon, before we had a record out. Then when the album came out (in February 1993), there was no more interest."

Then, though, the slightly bruised Berries toured America, where there had never been any hype. The response to their haunted, chilly songs was the stuff of a band's dreams. "American people are very open-minded. There are so many down-to-earth people there. It's not all beach-babe, Sindy Doll types, the way you're led to believe here. People in Europe aren't prepared to think about what we're about. The English press is such an influence here. I wouldn't wipe my bottom with the English press. There's no such thing as that kind of press influence in America," Dolores says, extolling the excellence of a land where car drivers shout the name of her album at her in the street.

Oxford tub-thumpers Radiohead discovered the same agreeable thing when, ignored in Britain, they took their wares to the States a year ago. Faster than you can say, "Phew! Rock'n'roll", their Pablo Honey album sold 700,000 copies, while the Creep single soared up the American chart.

"We had a live following here, but the music press hated us because we were signed with EMI, a major. We've never been considered NME or Melody Maker cover material because of it. When we first released Creep in Britain (in September 1992), an NME journalist said to me, 'If you weren't on EMI, you'd have had a cover by now.' In America, they don't have that kind of snobbishness about major labels," remarks Radiohead's guitarist, Ed O'Brien.

"We had knickers thrown at us in Detroit - we left'em to the guitar technicians - and girls were in the front row, screaming 'We love you!' It was really strange."

Their Stateside success has finally got the ball rolling at home, in a smallish way. Sales of Pablo Honey have crept up to 60,000, and, in a Guardian questionnaire, Jason Donovan announced that he dug "the Radioheads" (their reply: "What can you say? You can't be too choosy about who likes you.")

Significantly, both bands blame the music press for their difficulties in Britain. Moreover, both invoke Suede as an example of what can happen when the press likes you too much. The wild hyping of Brett Anderson's boys resulted in a No 1 album here and mass non-hysteria in America. The media and consumers there are deeply suspicious of sexually ambivalent English bands, anyway, and resented even more the idea of being force-fed this one. Ergo, Radiohead outsold Suede 15 to one over there.

"When you're promoting your record there, you have to do things you don't do here, like meet the people who distribute your record to shops," says O'Brien. "Many English bands think they're above all that, and they're all po-faced when they do it. We went over with curiosity about the place, and combined it with a work ethic."

The American music biz's from-the-ground-up approach creates careers; the British ethic of build'em-up-knock'em-down creates one-hit-wonders. That's the message the British industry is digesting.

For the moment, let's disregard the fact that the American charts are choked with people who should have been consigned to the Rock Gentlefolks' Home decades ago, and the fact that the ephemeral British attitude still produces the world's best pop. The bottom line is that the UK industry is now hurting because of its failure to make long-term financial investments in talent five years ago.

The major labels' objective is instant returns on money spent. Artists who require slow, careful nurturing are expected to have hits with their first release. American labels, on the other hand, are willing to support bands through four or five albums, allowing a following to develop organically.

As Ed O'Brien points out: "The big British labels are all owned by conglomerates now. Rupert Perry of EMI is answerable to the Thorn EMI board. Bands build up large debts touring - we did, but you build up a fanbase - but after the second record, the company could say, 'You're too expensive, we're getting rid of you'. There are no visionaries in the British business any more."

But the time has come when the UK record industry can't afford not to be visionary.