Player Piano easily comes across as comic on first blush; Vonnegut’s work presents plenty of opportunities for humor in the absurd world that it builds. In this post-war America, engineers manage to work themselves into juvenile frenzies over team-building athletic exercises. The ruler from a far-flung country tours America and speaks to his translator in what seems to be jibberish. Outlandish parades break out spontaneously on the streets. Bands smash and hew the sound of an “elephant charge […] as though in a holy war against silence.” Checker-playing robots succumb to loose wires and combust.
But a feeling of anxiety lurks beneath this thin veneer of farce. Funny as the circumstances seem, the novel’s other episodes betray a slight sense of unease. Murmurs of dissatisfaction ripple across the growing ranks of the jobless. The Reeks and Wrecks loiter around the streets, waiting for work or idling in the bar, while other workers fret over the threat of their replacement. An oppressiveness meanwhile reigns over the elites. The open managership position at the Pittsburgh Works becomes entangled in elaborate corporate politics as Shepherd and Paul vie for the job. At Meadows, each gesture is carefully calculated and every ingratiating response meticulously scripted.
One of the novel’s most mundane scenes is also its most unexpectedly poignant. Distraught by her husband’s infidelity, Wanda despairs over her sense of uselessness. Women lost their beauty, she explains, but they still demonstrated their value in the household in the past. Surrounded by far abler machinery now, though, she admits to her husband that “you can’t help it if you don’t love me any more.” Through moments like these, Player Piano provides snapshots of a society that has eroded its members’ self-worth. It articulates a restlessness and dissatisfaction that the forces of technology and efficiency can never solve.