

Esbjörn Svensson (pictured centre) of the Esbjörn Svensson Trio

If you're the DJ on a jazz radio programme, as I am, you face the task of dealing with the death of a significant musician at some point or other. Live on air, it's no easy task: how do you actually say that a person has died? How do you maintain formality but also point to the dignified joy of the music? What do you miss, the person or the work? Your tone of voice, almost inevitably, is gauged too far towards stiffness - I avoid referring to someone as having "passed away" but it's often all you can say. It's easy to make a slip, and if it's live, you'll never get another chance to show your appreciation for that person or, in the case of the Swedish jazz pianist Esbjörn Svensson, your love.

I'm not looking forward to my show on Sunday, where I will pay tribute to Svensson, one of the great jazz pianists and composers, who died last week at the age of 44. There's no question of me getting this broadcast wrong - my listeners already know how I'll be feeling. They know because I've told them of my admiration for Svensson, and because they heard the music. Endless plays of Elevation of Love, which still makes me smile, cry and want to drive across Europe in mad abandon, or critical appraisals of the Esbjörn Svensson Trio's Viaticum - which I slightly criticised, for God's sake - will mean that my listeners will be tuning in for a tribute from a number one fan. I'm worried I won't deliver.

I found the Esbjörn Svensson Trio in a massive gold mine of a record shop in Hamburg. Bored with the usual thing and knowing I could find the "good stuff" in northern Europe, I headed to the record shop at the earliest opportunity. I grabbed Tomasz Stanko, Miroslav Vitous and a few bargain basement compilations. Just as I was moving toward the electronica section I noticed the cover of Strange Place for Snow. Seeing this enticing minimalist design made me buy all the EST they had, and driving back to the ferry I listened all night.

The mix of autobahn and EST was delicious - I had found what I was looking for in jazz. It was jazz, but it was pop and it was dance music. It was sensuous, soulful and funky music, executed with precision and passion but tempered by the self-awareness of competent jazz players honestly stretching the potential of the music. I underline that this music was born out of self-awareness, not self-consciousness; this wasn't an exercise in vanity. This confident group made music that they wanted to listen to and invited us to join them in understanding it. We came in droves.

I was lucky enough to interview the trio in Southampton for my show around the release of Seven Days of Falling. It was my first radio interview and probably the most nervous I've ever been. I was allowed to watch the soundcheck and sat at the back of the auditorium to watch EST perform Elevation of Love, with me as the sole audience member. I remember suppressing tears as I sat, mouth open, staggered that these guys could do this live. To this day it's my favourite track: its seamless variations and nods at all the musical styles still wows me. Esbjörn - though he wouldn't take credit in the interview - had constructed the most moving piece of music, its progressions wrenching the listener into a blanket of beauty no matter where the CD is played.

My meeting with Esbjörn was probably the most star-struck I've ever been. I only ever saw EST live again once in Hamburg and embarrassed myself by shedding tears (again) at their performance.

Probably for the first and last time, my show on Sunday will be a tribute to my favourite musician: a champion of the European sound - indeed Svensson was the European jazz sound - a man whose musical mind, as complex as it was, embraced all its listeners, whether jazzheads or not. I'm not looking forward to my show, but I will convey how much Esbjörn Svensson meant to jazz and to jazz fans. We have truly lost a genius and it breaks my heart.