Victory Day in Moscow. Gonzo reporting from the trenches.

Red Square Blues: Moscow’s Victory Parade Under the Shadow of War

The bass was still vibrating in my skull from the club, a low thrumming counterpoint to the distant, heavier beat of military drums. Vlad, ever the cheerful nihilist, just shrugged when I suggested we head towards Moscow’s Red Square. “Why not?” he’d slurred, “See the show. Maybe they’ll roll out something new this year. Something that actually works.”

We spilled out onto the street, joining a trickle of humanity moving in the general direction of the Kremlin. Immediately, the air thickened. Not just with the lingering smell of exhaust and cheap perfume, but with a palpable, electric tension. Cops everywhere. Uniforms, stern faces, metal detectors flashing like frantic fireflies, snipers on every rooftop. This wasn’t just a parade; it was a pulsating organ of control.. We got as close as the steel barriers and the phalanx of grim-faced security would allow, just another couple of faces in a crowd that felt… thin.

Moscow’s Subdued Spectacle: More Anxiety, Less Ardor

The report from the researcher landed in my inbox earlier, dry facts about the 80th anniversary, the hardware, the high-profile guests Xi, Lula, Steven (Steven Seagal, of course Steven Seagal was there – the ultimate symbol of Russia’s shrinking VIP list). But the paper couldn’t capture the feel of it. It talked about a “somber and subdued” atmosphere, “smaller crowds,” a “tense national mood.” Yeah, the tension was radiating off the pavement like bad heat.

This wasn’t the roaring, chest-thumping spectacle of years past. The pride in the Great Patriotic War victory was still there, etched on the faces of the older generation clutching faded photos. But beneath it, like a persistent ache, was the anxiety. The goddamn war. The one happening now. The one that feels less like a glorious march, and more like a grinding, bloody mess.

Vlad nudged me, pointing with his chin at a group of younger guys nearby. They weren’t cheering. They were staring, silent, their eyes fixed on the distant rumble of tanks. You could see it in their faces – “war-weariness.” It’s real. It hangs in the air like the smog. The official line, trying to tie this current carnage to the epic struggle against Hitler, felt forced, like a cheap toupee glued to a skull. Some folks bought it, sure, their eyes glazed with patriotic fervor. But others… you could see the discomfort, the quiet questioning. Is this really the same fight? Are these the same stakes?

The War Comes Home: Drones, Doubt, and the Parade

The researcher mentioned the “increased Ukrainian attacks inside Russian territory,” the drone strikes, the raids. That’s the ugly truth casting the longest shadow over this whole damn show. The Ukraine War isn’t some distant TV broadcast anymore. It’s buzzing overhead, hitting fuel depots, making people jump at loud noises. It brings a different kind of reality to the grand pronouncements from the podium.

Putin was up there, doing his thing, Supreme Commander of the Russian Armed Forces, talking about connecting generations, resilience, the same tired script. The parade commander called it a “celebration for people, not a show of militarism.” Bullshit. Look at the metal rolling by, feel it shaking the ground. Look at the troops marching with that dead-eyed gaze. It’s a show of militarism, alright. It has to be. Because the other show, the one happening a few hundred miles away, isn’t going quite according to the script.

When Propaganda’s Veneer Can’t Hide the Cracks

This Moscow Victory Parade 2025 was a performance, a necessary ritual, but it felt hollowed out. The ghosts of 1945 were there, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the very real, very present, spectre of the current war and its huge entourage of newly created ghouls. The military parade a march towards the scythe of the grim reaper. More ghosts to celebrate?

The official narrative tried to, slam paint over the cracks, to pretend it was all one seamless narrative of Russian might against external evil. But down here, on the ground, pressed against the barriers with Vlad and the quiet crowd on Red Square, you could feel the disconnect. The pride was mixed with sorrow, the strength tempered by anxiety, and the grand display of power felt less like a triumph and more like a desperate assertion in uncertain times.

The Red Square was dressed for a party, but the mood felt like the ghost of a hangover after a party that never actually happened.