Shostakovich's Waltz No. 2: Through My Eyes (Gemini 3.0 Pro Translated Version)

Recently, I have encountered this piece again in various New Year’s concerts. Admittedly, these performances possess beautiful melodies and the “melancholic temperament” often interpreted in various articles. However, every time I hear these “entertaining” versions, a strong sense of unease washes over me—as if Shostakovich himself were standing behind me with a mocking smile on his face. In fact, ever since I accidentally heard a “correctly interpreted” version that left me too terrified to turn off the lights at midnight, this piece has essentially become synonymous with “spiritual horror” in my heart. Using a waltz, Shostakovich etched into my mind the complete terror of the Great Purge under “The Father” (Stalin), where one lived in constant fear of a midnight knock on the door.

While I do suffer from a bit of PTSD regarding things starting with the word “Large,” even setting aside forced interpretations, any slightly sensitive listener should notice a glaring anomaly: Why does a snare drum (Tamburo) beat persist from beginning to end in a waltz? From the perspective of music history, 19th-century European balls were closely linked to the military—for example, Johann Strauss II’s Kaiser-Walzer (Emperor Waltz). Many waltzes were composed to celebrate emperors, armies, or specific groups. The crisp sound of the snare drum easily creates a sense of solemnity, majesty, and discipline, evoking the atmosphere of a parade ground. Looking back at Shostakovich’s pervasive snare drum rhythm, it clearly brings a mechanical, marching quality to the piece. It makes one feel that the dance is not spontaneous, but rather a result of being “pushed along” by an irresistible external force.

This sense of oppression is even more vividly expressed at the beginning of the second half. After the “brilliance” of the first half ends, the music falls silent in an instant. Only the timpani remains, calling out—or rather, forcing the music to continue—with cold, harsh, machine-like down-beat intervals of a descending fourth. The main melody of the second half is then initiated by the trombones, followed by the echoes of trumpets and tubas, before finally being handed back to the woodwinds. We should all have a general understanding of what the trombone represents in Shostakovich’s works: it is the voice of the system, the order, and the rules, growing increasingly “real.” It tells everyone, “You thought this was joy, but it isn’t.” The brass section clearly isn’t here to dance; they are here to stand guard. Furthermore, if you understand a bit of music theory or listen closely enough, you will notice that the chord structure here differs from the beginning; the woodwinds and strings are clearly “negating” the melody of the brass.

Regarding the strings, generally speaking, the strings—especially the first violins—should carry the main melody. Yet in this waltz, when the strings play the melody, they are almost always stripped of individual function and paired with wind instruments in unison, especially during the climactic melody at the end of the first half. In fact, anyone with orchestral experience knows that a “sane” piece would never be arranged this way. When that oboe blares, your entire violin vibrates against your neck. Coupled with the coarse, explosive roar of the brass, you are forced to use a metallic, hysterical tone just to hear your own melody. This transformation from “I” to “We” (a typical CCCP style) instantly swallows individual performance (will) into collective performance (will). The dance eventually turns into a group of people with fake smiles, moving their bodies in lockstep. This is a “forced sense of unity,” a “prescribed happiness.” This sense of dread far exceeds the initial sorrow of the individual saxophone.

Before the finale, Shostakovich employs a “functionally simplistic” harmony, pushing the melody mechanically to the final note in a hollow, emotionless manner. There is no slowing down (ritardando), no lingering charm—nothing beautiful worth holding onto. This is merely a task that must be completed. Then comes the most typical, cliché cadence: Boom - Cha - Cha - Boom! It’s as if to say, “Time to clap.” Setting aside this intentional “mediocrity”—which was actually a mockery of the official aesthetic that forced him to create music “the masses would love”—this sudden stillness is more terrifying than the preceding clamor. It is the emptiness felt when a machine is suddenly unplugged, when that giant, rotating, oppressive thing abruptly stops. You are told “the ball is over,” then kicked back into the cold reality, left wondering in bewilderment: “What exactly were we just celebrating?” The music ends with outward decorum, but it refuses to leave you with a sense of dignity.

Therefore, the scene Shostakovich wants to evoke in your mind is one of a crowd with wooden expressions, dancing mechanically and incessantly on a cold square under the gaze of gun barrels. Nothing is more bone-chilling than this. However, I believe most people (including myself) don’t get this feeling upon first listen. This is likely due to two factors.

First is the brilliance of Shostakovich’s camouflage. In an era where art had to be “for the people” and “optimistic,” he would have likely been sent to dig coal in Siberia long ago if he had directly expressed obvious despair or defiance. The general public has a mental inertia; for instance, when they hear a waltz, they automatically associate it with Vienna, evening gowns, twirling, and champagne. These symbols bypass one’s alertness. As long as the melodic line is continuous and graceful, the brain passively ignores the brutality and mechanical nature of the orchestration. This sense of “popularity” that the public doesn’t scrutinize was the safety net Shostakovich meticulously designed to stay alive.

Second, naturally, is the misleading nature of various interpretations. Many modern orchestras, when performing this piece, intentionally or unintentionally weaken its irony and amplify its entertainment value. People just want to sway to a “creamier,” softer tone. Thus, when this piece is used in ordinary concerts, its sharp, mechanical edges are often polished smooth. Because the melody is so beautiful, the piece ends “vulgarly” before the audience can taste the bitterness within. This becomes the perfect trap, preventing people from further feeling the deep-seated terror of the original work.

So, I urge everyone to strive to improve your aesthetic cultivation. Let it ensure that the next time you see the Ritual to Pray for Nephew (Ji Zhi Wen Gao), you don’t think those “broken characters” are less beautiful than the neat “veteran cadre style” calligraphy, thereby ignoring the extreme emotional collision in Yan Zhenqing’s brush and the sincerity flowing between the lines that is more soul-stirring than perfect form. Let it ensure that the next time you see The Starry Night, you don’t think it’s just a madman’s scribbles, thereby missing the burning desire for life behind Van Gogh’s swirling colors. Let it ensure that the next time you read My Cottage Unroofed by Autumn Gales, you don’t think it’s just a poor old man whining, thereby failing to hear Du Fu’s sigh of compassion for the world under the torrential rain. And let it ensure that the next time you use a “Bisheng Large Model,” you don’t think it is industrial garbage or a meaningless increase in human entropy, thereby negating the ideals and solitary courage of generations of developers—a Sisyphus-like expedition that is destined to be tragic, yet stands as a rebellion against nothingness.