There is no sneaking into the foul business by way of a mellifluous and disarming introduction; no preparatory hemming and hawing to cajole the audience and enable the conductor to find his place in the score.  Nay!  Out of silence comes the angry crash of the tonic triad, and then at once, with no pause, the first statement of the first subject - grim, domineering, harsh, raucous, and yet curiously lovely - with its astounding collision with that electrical C sharp.  The carnage has begun early; we are only in the seventh measure.  In the thirteenth and fourteenth comes the incomparable drum roll down the simple scale of E flat - and what follows is all that has ever been said, perhaps all that ever will be said, about music-making in the grand manner.