Simon Trpceski []- the accent falls on the “chess” - calls himself “abnormally normal”. You can see why. In his late twenties, with the world at his feet, Macedonia's star classical pianist carries himself with an easy confidence - and no braggadocio.

That's quite a contrast from some others on the international circuit, those peacock pianists or frozen haddocks who keep their real selves hidden. Trpceski is supremely WYSIWYG: what you see is what you get.

Yet in this lazy age, easily seduced by the meretricious, there's nothing normal about Trpceski when he plays. That much was obvious when he caught the world's ear at the London International Piano Competition in 2001: he took the second prize, but should have come first. Since then, his concerts and EMI Classics CDs have demonstrated a range of strengths rarely united in a young pair of hands. Electrifying virtuosity, but no whiff of the show-off. The most delicate feelings, yet nothing precious or lacy. Head plus heart, lots of heart. What more could a music lover ask?

We'll find out perhaps on Tuesday, when he delivers a London recital of Chopin, Prokofiev and Debussy, the subject of his latest EMI Classics CD, Debussy - Images.

Where do these strengths come from? Two sources, I think. The Soviet bloc's collapse and the Yugoslav federation's splintering in 1991 may have brought economic strife for the emerging Republic of Macedonia, but it also brought as émigrés from the Moscow Conservatory Boris Romano and his wife Lyudmilla, two distinguished piano teachers soaked in the Russian school. “I was very lucky to have these teachers, very lucky,” Trpceski says when we meet at the Royal Festival Hall. “It's one thing to have some talent and to be able to resolve all the technical problems. But to bring out the emotional interpretation with good taste: I was taught that that's the most important thing.”

Invited to name the pianists he listens to with most respect, he quickly alights on the past Russian giants: Sviatoslav Richter, Emil Gilels; from a later generation, Vladimir Ashkenazy. The Romanian Radu Lupu hits the spot too; so, among others, does our own Paul Lewis.

The other source of the Trpceski bounce is obviously Macedonia itself - a small but proud republic of two million people, hemmed in between Greece, Albania, Bulgaria and the newly independent Kosovo. “Macedonia doesn't have a deep classical musical tradition, it's mostly folk, but the Macedonia Philharmonic was formed in 1944. The opera and the ballet followed, and the faculty of music, where I studied, in the 1960s. I'm now an assistant professor there. Things are improving. It was a difficult, turbulent time, growing up in Skopje. And our apartment was very small.”

It housed six: his father, a judge; his mother, a pharmacologist; the three children (he's the baby), and his father's mother, a fount of folk songs and tales. At four Trpceski was playing the accordion, struggling a bit with his left hand but easily picking out melodies with the right. By seven he was off on the piano. “My upright piano was in the living room: I had to practise, but the rest of the family had their needs too. But the understanding I got, and the warmth, was irreplaceable, and very important.

“Everyone was musical in some way: my father and grandmother knew a thousand songs. And there'd be lots of people visiting, there'd be singing and dancing. The social life in Macedonia is very important, very intensive, even more so then. Times change. The tempo of life's become crazy!”

Especially for a hot concert pianist. Macedonian pride and respect for culture have made Trpceski a big hero at home. “My cousins have a running joke about Skopje naming a street after me!”

Recently he inspired an art project in Skopje, with three sculptors using his performances as springboards. One created Trpceski masks, dangling from the ceiling. Another, the most cryptic, dreamt up nine vertical posts housing small brass balls engraved with composers' names. The third, Slavco Spirovski, created a quirky masterpiece: a blue Plexiglass piano with goldfish where the strings should be, triggering sounds each time they swim into a laser beam, in honour of Debussy's piano piece Poissons d'or.

Besides the Macedonian hothouse, international promoters are always on the prowl. Airports, hotels, another set of acoustics, another strange piano to get to know: it's easy to get stuck on the treadmill. “I'm trying to find the right balance in my life between the professional life and the private,” he says. “That's so important. Luckily my management understands that.”

At least he's abandoned the pummelling round of competitions: seven years ago the London International Piano Competition, as well as his participation in the BBC's New Generation Scheme, gave him all the lift he needed. “I attended a respectable number of competitions, but never with the goal of winning. I went to get experience and to see where I was. I learnt a lot. Including, unfortunately, the dirty parts of the business. People who deserve don't always get what they deserve. And it goes even to the point that some of them give up playing. Isn't that sad?”

Outside, his sister and his sculptor friend Spirovski are waiting. They flew in for a surprise visit, bringing the gift of a scarf patterned like a piano keyboard. But Trpceski now has a real piano to try, for his free recital in the Festival Hall's Clore Ballroom. “OK,” he grins, “it's sound test time! I've no idea what the piano's like.” It doesn't matter. Even if he played the scarf, Trpceski would make beautiful music.

Simon Trpceski plays in recital at the Wigmore Hall (020-7935 2141) on Tuesday and with the Liverpool Philharmonic on April 26, (0151-709 3789)

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