When Al Pitrelli talks about Trans-Siberian Orchestra, he doesn’t speak like someone riding a three-decade victory lap. He talks like a craftsman still chasing the next idea — still trying to bring a movie playing in someone else’s head to life, night after night.
“I was just so happy to be part of something so beautifully powerful and majestic,” Pitrelli says of recording the opening notes of “Christmas Eve/Sarajevo” in the winter of 1995. “The thought that this would go on thirty, forty years never crossed my mind.”
Back then, TSO wasn’t a touring juggernaut. It was an experiment born from the imagination of the late Paul O’Neill, whom Pitrelli calls his “big brother.” O’Neill envisioned the music as more soundtrack than song — an emotional narrative underscoring a story only he could see. “It was like this movie playing over and over in his head,” Pitrelli recalls. “My job was to help bring it to life.”
That job has since grown into musical director of one of the most ambitious live productions in modern music. What began with a single 24-foot box truck in 1999 now rolls across North America with roughly twenty tractor-trailers and a dozen buses. But Pitrelli insists scale was never the goal.
“We kind of painted ourselves into a corner,” he says, laughing. Multiple lead singers, poetic narration, full string sections — the records demanded a massive ensemble. The live show simply followed.
For Pitrelli, the challenge isn’t volume or logistics; it’s balance. “I’m constantly trying to make it more elegant and more orchestral, yet still keep the edge of a rock and roll band,” he explains. Each year he studies classical composers — Rachmaninoff one season, Shostakovich the next — subtly weaving their influence into TSO’s sound. “There’s a fine line.”
Offstage, the man responsible for conducting controlled chaos prefers quiet routine. He rides shotgun on the bus, drinks a glass of wine, listens to Miles Davis, and stares out the window. Before shows, he FaceTimes his wife and daughters. “As soon as the curtain drops and I see the crowd,” he says, “I feel like I’m fifteen again. That feeling never goes away.”
TSO’s enduring connection with fans — what Pitrelli affectionately calls “the repeat offenders” — comes from refusing to repeat itself. “My job is to keep it familiar, but completely different in presentation,” he says. This year’s overhaul was inspired by a simple moment: watching his daughter tear up after an artist reached out and shook her hand in the crowd. “That intimacy matters,” he says. “We erased everything and started from scratch.”
The future of new TSO music remains uncertain. O’Neill left behind unfinished material, but Pitrelli is careful not to promise anything. “If I told you we would, I’d be lying. If I said we won’t, I’d be lying.”
What he does promise is evolution — and effort. “Don’t ever get complacent,” he says, echoing O’Neill’s philosophy. “Next year is a whole other problem.”
For a band that has become synonymous with tradition, that restless refusal to stand still may be TSO’s greatest gift.