Just over 80 years after his death, what sort of person was Sergey Rachmaninov? How much do we really know about him, this immensely tall man with his inscrutable expression and close-cropped hair? Stravinsky remembered that in conversations with him (‘or, rather, with his wife’), he was always silent. His famous description of Rachmaninov as ‘a six-and-a‑half-foot-tall scowl’ has come to define him – unfairly, for it is a quote (from Conversations with Stravinsky, 1959) taken out of context and which in fact paid tribute to an ‘awesome man … whose silence looms as a noble contrast to the self-approbations which are the only conversation of all performing and most other musicians. And he was the only pianist I have ever seen who did not grimace. That is a great deal.’

My own view of Rachmaninov the man is that, yes, there was the dignified, solemn public persona, a serious player who knew his worth, but that this facade hid a warmth and humanity (how else could anyone have written the C minor Concerto?) – another side, the one you see in his family movies where he is laughing, clowning even, and playing the devoted father and family man.

If you share these views and remain intrigued by the character of this great composer, then Geoffrey Norris’s book will confirm all the above traits but cast a new light on many more. The book is such a good idea on many levels. Norris, former chief music critic of the UK’s The Daily Telegraph, has made a lifetime study of Rachmaninov and has written numerous articles and a book-length study (1976) of the composer. He it was, you might recall, who was telephoned from Switzerland in 2004 and asked to authenticate the long-lost manuscript score of the Second Symphony. There could, then, be no better person to have edited this book, and few others who can have so assiduously drawn together these more than 40 interviews that were printed in English, American, Russian, French, Dutch and German publications (impressively, the foreign texts are appended to the translations). Few of them have been republished since the day they first appeared. Each interview is followed by detailed editorial notes putting events and personalia in context. Many of them are accompanied by clearly reproduced (miniaturised) images of the original articles.

This is an altogether absorbing volume, as valuable and enlightening as it is original and unexpected. Who knew that this taciturn giant of the musical world had ever given more than a handful of interviews? Norris reminds us, ‘there is no known recording of Rachmaninoff’s voice’, though you can hear faint snatches in the now-celebrated eavesdropping as he went through the Second Symphony on the piano with Eugene Ormandy (issued on Marston – 10/18). As you might expect, the tone (at least, how it appears on the printed page) is lofty and magisterial. Here he is in November 1909 (the earliest interview of the collection), having arrived in America for the first time: ‘I have scant sympathy with those who have allowed themselves to succumb to the wanton eccentricities of a latter-day musical sensationalism. Unfortunately, I cannot express myself as optimistic regarding the ultimate results of contemporaneous tendencies for I do not believe that future composers will manifest any desire to rid themselves of many obnoxious influences which have found their way into our art. The methods of Strauss and Reger have come to stay. I, for one, shall steer clear of them.’ Later (1938) we learn that ‘I don’t go beyond Debussy and Ravel [as a pianist]. Simply because I don’t understand modern music at all.’ Bartók? ‘Even less.’ Busoni’s arrangements of Liszt were ‘shameful. That sort of thing shouldn’t be tolerated.’ Other things he dislikes? The radio (‘It is awful’), the Albert Hall (‘vast and cold’) and Brahms (‘a notable example’ of music ‘written for the [piano] that is really alien’).

These pronouncements taken out of context might skew one’s impression of him but are representative of the golden nuggets on every page thrown up by these contemporary face-to-face interviews and profiles. They are the nearest we are going to get to hearing this great composer speak ‘with a gentle slowness’ in his ‘deep and musical bass [voice]’ as he smokes his ‘abnormally short Russian cigarettes …in an abnormally long cigarette holder’. (Rachmaninov disowned his Recollections as told to Oskar von Riesemann, published in 1934: ‘Apparently I dictated it myself, but in that case my brain must have been muddled.’) The real meat of the book is found in Rachmaninov’s views on piano technique, piano practice, Russian music, musical interpretation, national conservatories, the fundamental gift of melody and, of course, how to play his C sharp minor Prelude.

This book will tell you more about the man who ‘remains something of a mystery [and] does not talk readily to strangers’ (New York Sun, 1937) than any biography. One last thing. It comes with a ribbon page mark – final proof of a classy publication.