The pause is important in music. It comes first and thus is the premise in itself. Sound is born out of silence. And the musician’s pause at his instrument, that sacred moment before, has an infinite meaning. This decisive moment is in itself extremely dramatic - just before the fingers touch the keyboard, before soft fingertips meet the white or black surface of the keys, rip up the silence, either gently, violently or carefully, hesitatingly like a chaste spider in a web. Or like a butterfly, flapping its wings at the mercy of external circum-stances, but nevertheless sure of achieving something, anything. A result. So when two piano professors, Carsten Dahl and Niklas Sivelöv, sit down in front of two pianos in the Danish Radio´s Concert Hall it’s not for fun, but a deliberate attempt to enter into a musical practice, which is just as rich in tradition as it’s intimidating and controversial. Two men, two pianos. Two temperaments and two different per¬sons must find each other in the music. Must create something. Not only must they be in step or rather in rhythm, they must get good vibes, be in the same mood. When one says ‘speed’, the other answers ‘slow’. If one wants ‘stac¬cato’, the other perhaps ‘legato’. And if one reaches for Satie, the answer is a boogie-woogie. It’s not a fight, neither for the individual pianist against his pia¬no, nor between the two musicians. It’s rather a kind of tonal essay writing where piano forte is challenged, possibilities are searched for – and sweet music comes out of the loudspeakers.