David McVicar, opera director

When I first started listening to opera as a teenager, the Mozart recordings I had were Colin's. We have lost one of our greatest British conductors. I worked with him on three Mozart operas: The Marriage of Figaro and The Magic Flute at the Royal Opera House, and La Clemenza di Tito at the Aix-en-Provence festival. It was such a learning curve doing Mozart with him – he brought so much love to the music, but he was never interested in following fashions, he wanted to find his own way.

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His approach was predicated purely on an innate and instinctive understanding of the music, and the depth of both his knowledge and empathy was extraordinary. He didn't tend to say much in rehearsals. He'd smile benignly, mostly, and just watch intently. But he certainly knew what he wanted, and if he didn't like something he'd pipe up, expressing himself in terms that you simply couldn't argue with – they made so much sense. Instead of micromanaging the singers, he collaborated with them, letting them sing, while with his orchestra he was a fantastic technician. He had that wonderful talent of knowing how to watch and accompany. Few conductors have that ability.

Josephine Barstow, soprano

I worked with Colin over many years, beginning, I think, in the late 1960s in Peter Grimes at Covent Garden, where I sung second niece. And then there was Michael Tippett's The Knot Garden in 1970. I was extremely young, and the thing I remember most is how kind he was. I hadn't done a lot of modern music and it wasn't an easy score to sing, but he was always encouraging.

He had a lovely relationship with Tippett: there was a great deal of mutual respect, and you always felt with him conducting that you were safe, it was going to be OK. He got the best out of people by understanding that he was heading a team and making music with us all; he made us feel that our own input was important. He didn't go from place to place saying: "This is how I do things." He understood that if he was working with a different team, the end result would be different; he wanted to find the best performance for whatever cast he was working with. I can remember in Peter Grimes him saying, "I don't want to drive this, I want you all to take hold of the piece."

One particular memory I have is from about 25 years later, when I stepped in at short notice to sing in Fidelio at Covent Garden. I took the wrong turning in the aria . Moments like these are disasters: you don't know how to get back, and a lot of conductors would slay you, treat you as if you were an idiot, or had done it on purpose. But I remember he came to my dressing room in the interval, sat down next to me, and just said: "Bad luck." It was so heartwarming. I've never forgotten it.

Robin Ticciati, conductor

It feels like he will always be my musical father. That's a privilege and an honour. It was his performance of Sibelius's First Symphony when I was playing for him in the National Youth Orchestra that made me want to become a conductor: that experience was just the most incredible musical and emotional journey. Since then, he has guided me with unbelievable generosity. As a mentor, he never forced me into anything. Instead, he waited to see what decisions I would make on my own, and then would beckon me back into his wisdom and teach me from it. What was so inspiring was his responsibility in front of the score, and how he brought everything in his life and his art to those notes in front of him: King Lear, bolognese, love. There was a symbiosis between how he lived for the world, for people, and for music. I just feel so grateful for those hours in his garden or sat on his sofa, to have had that time with him.

What he taught me was to have one thousand per cent conviction in your thoughts about any piece of music – to know every alleyway and wooded grove of the score. And yet when you get up in front of the orchestra, you have to embrace the sound of the musicians and trust them.

I know he wasn't a man for expressing love on an immense scale, but having known him since I was 13, I hope he knew that I loved him. His teaching and his wisdom will never leave me: that essential idea that the score must be a journey. And if that's true, you can hope to say something with the piece that might make some reverberations in the world, to make it a more vibrant and more beautiful place.

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Nikolaj Znaider, violinist and conductor

What was so extraordinary was his combination of humility, integrity and generosity. I just don't see that anywhere else in our world: too often, it's about the overblown maestro ego and not about the music itself. That was how he saw the world: he told me, as he told many other people, that all we have to do as musicians, as conductors, is just not get in the way of the music. All we have to do is let Mozart, say, do his job. It sounds banal – and of course it's an over-simplification – but on a deep and almost zen level, it's an incredibly profound idea. Once you've learned everything, as he had, you just have to let it happen.

And that's what happened when we worked together. He made all of us on stage – the soloist, each musician in the orchestra – the best version of ourselves that we could be. That's the best compliment I could pay to anyone. There was an eloquence in his gestures that was just as beautiful as the way he spoke. He was able to encapsulate the essence of a musical phrase in a single gesture. I remember watching him rehearse La Clemenza di Tito with the LSO at Aix-en-Provence, and there were these three notes at the end of a particular phrase: he gave three little kisses to the woodwind players to describe what he wanted. And every time I saw those performances, I saw those three little kisses. He was able to make these little miracles with absolute effortlessness.

Meirion Bowen, musician and writer

Colin was largely responsible for the revaluation of Michael Tippett's music from the 1960s onwards. He attended an early performance of his oratorio A Child of Our Time in the 1940s and was immediately ensnared. He subsequently conducted many performances of the work, recorded it and went on to conduct premieres of major Tippett compositions. Some of Tippett's works had been coarsely dismissed by both conductors and orchestral players (I remember one player even trampling on a copy of his part after a rehearsal), but Colin made this a thing of the past.

He shared Tippett's wide interests in literature (especially German writers) and clearly perceived how this had given a depth to Tippett's compositions that went beyond purely technical facets. Tippett's contrapuntal textures and virtuosic instrumental writing demanded far more rehearsal than had been generally available in the 1940s and 50s. But when, for instance, Davis premiered Tippett's Third Symphony, he insisted on a number of extra strings-only rehearsals to ensure that all problems of execution were sorted out. The results were illuminating. And in Tippett's epic, full-evening, choral and orchestral composition, The Mask of Time, Davis was equal to all its musical and intellectual demands. He set an example that others subsequently followed, causing an escalation in the composer's reputation worldwide.

While both conductor and composer were both deeply serious about their work, they shared a huge sense of humour. I recall Colin, at a meal with soloists and others, after a major Tippett performance, mischievously ejecting bits of food off a fork at others around the table. He was devoted to his wife Shamsi, who was both loving and strong, and her death in 2010 left him totally despondent and isolated, unwilling to accept any more conducting engagements, despite innumerable pleas.

I remember one night after [Tippett's] The Mask of Time at the Royal Albert Hall, Colin was backstage, and had started to change out of his formal clothes, and was sitting exhausted at a table with a hard drink. Shamsi came rushing in and ordered him to put his trousers back on, as the Prince of Wales was about to enter the room. Reluctantly, he complied. The Prince arrived and uttered a single word: "Gosh!"

John Tooley, general adminstrator (then director), Royal Opera House, 1970-1988

The 15 years that Colin and I shared at Covent Garden were a wonderful time. True, it was difficult at the beginning, but that's been the same with other music directors. And that difficulty wasn't because of Colin being awkward; it was because he couldn't really come to terms with authority. All that he was interested in was making music – his humility put him at a huge disadvantage when it came to things like the board.

He showed incredible flair for Mozart and Berlioz, which was well known before he arrived. But he developed as a musician through all the repertoire he conducted: the Ring Cycle, which I thought he led marvellously well, even if there were lapses (but let's face it, there are always lapses in a Ring); in French repertoire, such as Werther or Samson and Delilah; and of course in Tippett. He had an absolute sense of what Tippett was about, even if he didn't always understand his texts (mind you, none of us did) – but Colin made Tippett's operas work superbly.

Colin's life was a continual search, and he was always progressing, as a man and musician. In the early days when I went to see him at the interval, he would be reading a Yeats poem. He was extremely interested in literature. In recent years, he began to mellow and became an even more philosophical soul. And Shamsi [his second wife] was a power of strength for him – and they had a great collection of children to boot.

They were inseparable, and when she died I thought that would be the end for Colin. But all credit to him, he began to find his way out of his grief, and find his way to conduct again. Theirs was one of the most remarkable relationships I have ever known. They were so supportive of each other.

Kathryn McDowell, managing director, London Symphony Orchestra

Sir Colin Davis assumed the role of president shortly after I joined the LSO, and it was a great joy to the orchestra and our audiences that he continued to forge ahead with major projects for another seven years. This Indian summer included revisiting some of the repertoire for which he was most renowned and rerecording it on LSO Live (Berlioz, Sibelius), but it also involved ambitious new projects, such as the complete symphonies of Nielsen, which he was conducting for the first time. He continued to have an appetite for commissioning new work, having been associated with major composers such as Michael Tippett in the past, and for his 80th birthday he agreed that the LSO should commission a full-length Easter Passion from James MacMillan, which he conducted in London, Amsterdam and Boston. He believed in commissioning major new work and wanted young composers to feel part of the LSO family, alongside young artists and young conductors.

What mattered to Sir Colin was the music-making, the musicians and all those who loved music. This, together with his close-knit family, was the focus of his life. A deep humility dominated all his work at the LSO. Numerous young conductors will testify to Colin's huge influence on their development, yet he refuses all claims to have taught anyone.

Sir Colin was also practical; after his 80th birthday, he asked me about the LSO's financial situation and offered a major gift of his own, only agreeing for it to be publicly known when he could see it would encourage others to follow suit.

Today, the LSO and all those who worked with him or loved his performances feel a profound sense of loss, but we also feel deeply privileged to have known him. His many recordings are a fantastic legacy, but so, too, are the memories that so many people will cherish of his music-making in the concert hall, and his encouragement of young musicians.

Andrew Davis, conductor

He's one of our giants. We didn't see a lot of each other, but I remember vividly the first and last times we met. The first was in the conductor's room at the BBC's Maida Vale studios. I was just starting out and he was coming in after me and said – it was terribly Colin – "We are legion" (we're both Davises). I think he must have been reading a lot of William Blake at the time. And then I saw him in New York a few years ago, when he conducted the New York Philharmonic in a programme of Berlioz and Sibelius. He started with an inspirational performance of Berlioz's Les Francs-Juges overture – I had forgotten how wonderful that piece was and immediately started programming it. And he finished with the most incandescent, wonderful, astonishing performance of Sibelius's Seventh Symphony that I've ever heard. We went for dinner afterwards and had the best time. There was absolutely no conductors' bullshitting at all. I just regret that I didn't get to see him more.

Lennox Mackenzie, chairman and sub-leader of the LSO

He was a master conductor who possessed an innate understanding of great music that he performed with astonishing energy, care, warmth and affection. He had the gift of transferring his musical thoughts and ideas to us London Symphony Orchestra players in the most congenial and delightful manner, thereby creating the perfect atmosphere for enjoyable and first-rate music making. He cared deeply for the health and welfare of his musicians, always showing warmth and interest for our wellbeing; his love of the orchestra created a warm family atmosphere within. Music was his true love. He was ego-free and never a showman, and hated other people's self-aggrandisement – music came first for him.

I remember a conducting masterclass when he berated one of the young conductors for working too hard – moving his arms around too much. He took over, briefly, on the podium and set the orchestra off in a movement of Beethoven. Then he stopped conducting completely, the orchestra carried on, and he explained to the young man, "The orchestra is on a roll. It's not going to stop. You don't have to do anything." But of course every now and again, Sir Colin would give a small gesture which would indicate a dynamic or a piece of expression that made the orchestra sound totally different. I realised at that point I was in the presence of greatness.

His interpretations of Sibelius, Elgar and Mozart – to name but a few – are legendary, but it is Berlioz that I think of first. The last concert the orchestra played with him was his Grande Messe des Morts at St Paul's Cathedral. He brought structure, architecture and thrilling excitement to Berlioz's music. I'm so glad to have that final concert as such a special memory.

Clive Gillinson, executive and artistic director, Carnegie Hall, New York

In the first part of his career, orchestra/conductor relationships were substantially defined by a battle for supremacy, apparently relished by some conductors, abhorred by Sir Colin. He always fought against the notion of power, seeing his job as being the convener of the exploration of the music, in partnership with the musicians of the orchestra. He often told me that his period as principal conductor was the highlight of his musical life, having at last found a partnership where he was free to be himself, working with a group of like-minded musicians, to endlessly explore the wonders of the music he adored. For all of us at the LSO at that time, it was a privilege to be his partner on this journey, at last pursued, as he had always dreamed, in a spirit of mutual trust and humility.

Antonio Pappano, Music Director, The Royal Opera

The warmth and excitement of his music-making will be terribly missed. We had future plans with him in place, but more importantly his passing represents the end of an era where grit, toil, vision and energy were the defining elements of a leading international opera house. This is a sad moment for British music.

Heather Harper, soprano

Colin and I started at the Royal Opera House at almost the same time and worked together quite a lot. I remember singing Vitellia with him in La clemenza di Tito when very few people had heard the opera; later, we worked together most notably in Britten's music and also Tippett's. I remember the happy occasion when Elijah Moshinsky's production of Peter Grimes had its premiere in 1975; there was such a good atmosphere and he was so serene, although Colin could be very emotional. It was he who got me to almost shout the word "answers" in the recording of Tippett's Third Symphony.

Christopher Maltman, baritone

Great conductors don't simply keep orchestra and singers in time, they bind them together with an overarching artistic vision that imbues tempo with meaning and purpose, and mystically facilitate the sometimes convoluted process of lifting music from page to public. Sir Colin was a truly great conductor. Even more remarkably, he was one who managed his herculean tasks with profound integrity, humility, depth and class. I was fortunate enough to work with him on music ranging from Mozart to MacMillan, including both my Covent Garden debut and ROH's last incarnation of the eternal Zauberflöte, and, although the sparkling, rejuvenating energy he brought to each, even into his 80s, may have now departed, all of those pieces will for me be haunted forever by his warm, benevolent spirit.

Interviews by Imogen Tilden and Tom Service