Elliott Carter: appreciation - Telegraph On the one occasion I met Elliott Carter at his brownstone apartment in New York, I was on tenterhooks. This was America's greatest living composer, who'd transformed himself across an epic 70-year career from neo-classicist to American populist to fearsome modernist. He'd met Gershwin as a teenager, known Paris in the days of Sylvia Beach and the Surrealists, and been friendly with Copland and Stravinsky and anyone you could name in American culture from the 1930s onwards. I'd been awe-struck by the dazzling complexity of his music since my teens. What did one say to a living legend? Then suddenly he appeared at the door in his shorts, and the only thought I could muster was what good legs he had for a 100-year-old. "Come in, come in," he said, waving his stick ostentatiously to show he didn't need it. We sat down on ancient sofas amidst piles of books teetering on tables, an open New York Times strewn across the top of them. I wanted to chat about the past, he wanted to know what was going on in British contemporary music. I told him, and then gently tacked back in time. Did he remember the opening of the Empire State Building? He mused for a while and said "No, but I remember it going up." He remembered quite a few other things: milk being delivered by horse and cart, airships flying overhead. I asked him about Charles Ives, the great father-figure of American modernism who'd encouraged Carter as a boy, and about whom Carter had gone on to write a notoriously critical article. One could see why; Carter had to find his own way, and that meant establishing a distance between himself and Ives. But there was something patricidal about it. Did he regret that article now? I expected a brush-off, because Carter doesn't do retractions. Under that genial exterior there was an iron will. He murmured something that might have been a yes, but I couldn't be sure, and I'm still not now. Then we did a tour of the flat he'd lived in for over half a century. "That's a Paul Klee I bought in Paris when I was a student there," he said, pointing to one of the many small paintings on the wall. There were mementos everywhere, signed photographs from Presidents and eminent conductors, concert posters - including one for a piano recital he gave in the early 1920s. Too soon it was time to go. I was lucky enough to meet Elliott Carter on several other occasions, and it was always a tonic. One felt more sure of things in his presence, as if his own amazing single-mindedness created its own aura. He was able to be so genially tolerant of music we all knew he must despise, like minimalism, because he was so sure of his own path. I don't always warm to his music, though there are certain pieces I treasure. What I really treasure is the man himself, for the way he fashioned himself into something tremendous, against the odds. And for the sight of that pugnacious little figure at the door, waving his stick and showing off his legs.