HOW WE MET; PINCHAS ZUKERMAN AND RALPH KIRSHBAUM

Pinchas Zukerman, 48, was born in Tel Aviv. One of the outstanding classical musicians of his generation, he is acclaimed as a violinist, violist, conductor and chamber musician. Married to the actress Tuesday Weld, he lives in New York; he has two daughters from his first marriage.

Ralph Kirshbaum, 50, was born in Texas. A distinguished cellist who has appeared with most of the world's orchestras and conductors, he founded the Manchester International Cello Festival in 1988. He lives with his wife and son in London

#PINCHAS ZUKERMAN: The first time I met Ralph, in 1978, the instrument dealer Charlie Beare was working on his cello. Charlie was a comfort zone for musicians. Many years ago, I used to do just what Ralph was doing when I met him - talk to Charlie, feeling anxious about the sound on my instrument. It took me a while to realise that a lot of it was to do with practising in rooms with awful acous-tics. Worrying about tiny changes in the sound post is like having a nervous tic. Eventually, you get over it.

At the time, I played a lot of tennis and wanted to be Jimmy Connors, so when I found out that Ralph played I was happy. I don't think I expected him to win the first set, though - he didn't look like a tennis player. I've always been competitive in sports, although I'm not competitive by nature.

Making music with Ralph was the natural progression of our friendship. I guess one day I said to him, "Why aren't we making music together?" I'd been playing a lot with Daniel [Barenboim] and Jackie [du Pres], and then, when Jackie got sick, I played with the cellist Lynn Harrell, and then with Ralph,

The fact that Ralph is maybe not as well-known as some other cellists means nothing to me. All that hype associated with certain soloists - be they cellists, violinists, pianists or singers - is a part of the business I hate. None of it has anything to do with making music.

I've always had a special feeling for cellists, because they don't have as easy a time as violinists. For a start, the instrument is heavy and cumbersome, and the repertoire is so limited. Ralph has a wonderful, warm sound; it's rich, deep and expressive. I could pick him out in a roomful of cellists, even if I couldn't actually see him. He's one of those cellists who doesn't do a lot of "Hoop-la". Ralph isn't showy. He just sits down and plays.

As musicians, I'd say that Ralph is more studious than I am. When we're working together, his way is to do a lot more talking and explaining. I'm more of a demonstration man. There's never any question of one of us being "the boss" - that's not what it's about. It's the notes that matter. They're the starting point. We sit around and match ideas to the piece and the composer and what we think makes the best sense for playing that particular piece. It's probably something we've played many times together already but, like the weather, there's always something that can change on the day. It happens instinctively.

Before a performance, there are always nerves. Ralph usually arrives at the concert hall before I do. I'm always emotionally prepared, even if physically I'm not actually in my dressing room. Neither of us necessarily talks beforehand, because we both respect each other's private space.

After a concert, I never want to stick around. Ralph enjoys that side of things more than I do. It's not a question of being more or less sociable, it's just that physically and emotionally I'm usually very tired. I'm not interested in parties and receptions - all I want is to find a back door and disappear.

Travelling and performing is a debilitating way of life which requires a huge amount of discipline. I think that sometimes audiences forget how disciplined we have to be. They just see the performance and the applause. They're never there for the constant preparation and practising.

Ralph and I both enjoy food. Ours is a life which involves far too much eating at the wrong time. On the day of a concert we have a regular dilemma - do we have a mid-afternoon meal, and then nothing after the concert, or something to keep us going and dinner late at night? Both of us try to keep to a low-fat diet and take exercise, but I think that, on balance, Ralph probably takes more care of himself than I do. When we spent a week together in Japan last summer, I introduced him to sushi, something I really enjoy. Ralph loves all those grilled shrimps and chicken, but I finally won him over to sushi, which is healthy and light.

We fly in and out of each other's lives, but always it's the music which binds us together. I'm very lucky that I don't have to sit in an office. I have a wonderful profession which keeps me in touch with my closest friends. Among those I count Ralph as one of the best, but if I invite him to participate in a festival, or a concert, it isn't to do with friendship. It's to do with the way he plays the cello. For me, that's what this is all about.

RALPH KIRSHBAUM: Some time in the late Seventies - I think it was summer 1978 - I took my cello to J & A Beare in Broadwick Street so that Charles Beare could make a slight adjustment to the sound. Watching him with my cello felt like looking at a dentist going into someone's mouth. I felt sad because the cello is as precious to me as a member of my family. Charles was painstakingly making an infinitesimal movement to the sound post, when Pinchas burst into the workshop, shouting, "Charles, stop that, it sounds fine. You're just wasting your time."

Charles and Pinchas, who are good friends, had a lunch date. Apart from saying hello to him once in my life, I'd never met Pinchas. Over the years, since our friendship developed, I've got used to the way he blurts things out - it's just his way. Charles, who was doing his best to be diplomatic, said, "Hang on, I'm working with Ralph." The immediate reaction from Pinchas was, "Great, then Ralph can come to lunch, too."

So, completely out of the blue, I found myself sitting in a Chinese restaurant in Soho with Pinchas Zukerman, talking about tennis. He was a keen player - something, apart from music, that we discovered had in common. I said, quietly, that I played. Pinchas said, "You're too fat for that. You can't possibly play tennis" - but he must have been intrigued, because he arranged for us to play the following day on the courts in Regent's Park.

At the appointed hour, I arrived to find him hitting balls to someone. We started warming-up for a few minutes before the game. I'd been very low-key about my tennis, but because of his comments at lunch I was determined to give it some extra effort, and I beat him six-love in the first set - although Pinchas is actually much better than I am. We had two more sets, which were very close, and won one each, which meant I was one set up. Pinchas is very competitive and insisted that we meet again. A couple of days later, we went to my club, and played two very hard sets; he won both of them.

Because of the crazy lives we lead, after our first meeting, we didn't see each other for ages, but, having once met Pinchas, there was an instant rapport. It's like when you make music with someone and words become completely superfluous. Underneath his bluster, I felt a kinship and quiet warmth. It's something which has been sustained ever since.

I consider Pinchas a close and loyal friend. Ours is like a friendship that goes back to childhood; when you might not have seen someone for years, but it only takes 10 seconds to feel as if we've always been together.

About 10 years ago, my sister Shirley became Pinchas's manager, and Pinchas is now almost like family. I've always felt comfortable discussing things both professional and personal with him, and I know he feels that way with me. Last summer, we were together for a week in Japan - for me, it was so good to be with a real friend. So often, in this business, you fly in and out of countries and cities; it can feel quite lonely.

Pinchas makes an incredible sound - all his warmth, sincerity and spontaneity comes out in his playing. To have that sound in your ear while you're making music is one of the greatest pleasures I know. Even when we've rehearsed a piece one way, during the performance something often happens to the inner rhythms - and we end up playing it differently.

Shortly before he died, the great cellist Piatigorsky told me a story about a concert he did with Pinchas, Itzhak Perlman and Daniel Barenboim. He was talking about how the world had changed for artists. For him, the day of a concert was always sacred - a time to rest and reflect quietly. He liked to be at the hall 40 minutes before the concert, but when he got there, none of the other musicians was there. Eventually, Daniel came in, found a phone in the corner of a room and started making international calls. Ten minutes later, Itzhak arrived, put his violin on top of the piano and began telling jokes. Fifteen minutes before the concert was due to begin, Pinchas burst in, dripping with sweat, because he'd been playing tennis. He had a shower, got into his performance attire, and picked up his viola with three minutes to spare. Piatigorsky said that from the first note, all three played like angels. !