They are the unsung heroes of classical recording: they may be the people behind the scenes, but without them not a single celebrated studio album would exist, let alone sound as thrilling as it does. Producers, engineers: they are the experts behind the control desk, behind the microphones (both literally and figuratively, the microphone’s placement and even selection drawing on instinct and experience honed by hundreds of hours in the studio), and at a later stage, behind the final, edited and mastered sound file that makes its way from your CD player, streaming service or even turntable into your speakers or headphones.

It’s the part of recording that, prior to arriving at Gramophone more than two decades ago, I knew least about, and have been fascinated by ever since. Sitting in sessions, in the intense silence of the control room, I came to realise that technical and musical knowledge was only part of the story; psychology, diplomacy and simply organisation (vital, when time literally is money in terms of booked studios and musicians) all play a role too. The location might be a surburban church or a famed studio like Abbey Road, but I discovered that what matters more than that was the relationship of trust between an artist and the production team.

I write all this because a fair few of our pages this month are devoted to John Culshaw, the producer whose centenary we mark this year, and who is the subject of a tribute box from Decca, lovingly prepared and annotated by the label’s head Dominic Fyfe. James Jolly’s fascinating feature about Culshaw, drawing on recent interviews with Culshaw’s colleagues and friends (many now in their nineties), tells his tale, that of a producer – the first, incidentally, to sit centrally behind the control desk – whose projects shaped what’s so often called the Golden Age of classical recording, its gems such projects as the Solti Ring or Britten’s War Requiem. Richard Osborne’s review reflects on what we can learn about his influence from the celebratory set.

Culshaw’s ambition, absolute dedication to artistic excellence and belief in recording as an art form remain guiding principles, even as the technology bears little relation to anything he might have envisaged. Those principles live on today in all the producers I’ve had the pleasure of watching work: their forensic attentiveness often teaching me as much about the score as the musicians. Engineers, meanwhile, have helped me understand acoustics, and the art (and challenge) of capturing the space in which the music breathes, insight that now informs the way I hear every recording.

Celebrating a great producer like John Culshaw is a reminder that the recording industry relies on so many people beyond the performers to make it thrive: we could further add in managers, publicists, label heads, those involved in distribution and retail, and so many more. Most modestly see themselves as servants of the music, but Culshaw’s legendary status is a reminder of their significance. Their names might only be noted in the small print on a sleeve – or in metadata online – but in taking time to salute Culshaw, we salute them all.