Thunder Before Kickoff: Percussive Power from the Pittsburgh Steeline
Acrisure Stadium wasn’t quite awake yet.
The sky was slowly drizzling cold rain like it was daring you to admit you’re uncomfortable.
Fans were scattered across the North Shore in standard pre-game party form, clutching hot drinks (and other types of drinks that warm you up!).
And then 27 members of the Pittsburgh Steeline started warming up at Stage AE. The rain didn’t stand a chance. The moment they launched into that first cadence, the atmosphere didn’t “shift.” It detonated. People under umbrellas snapped their heads around. Tailgaters jogged over from across the lot. Phones shot into the air like flares. The sound hit with such force it felt like the weather tapped out and said, “Alright… fine,” because within minutes, the rain stopped.
And that’s when the real chaos began.
The Pittsburgh Steeline didn’t stay put. They swept across the entire area surrounding the stadium — Art Rooney Ave, tailgate lots, sidewalks jammed with fans, the stage at Tequila Cowboy — and everywhere they went, the temperature kept dropping but the energy kept rising like somebody was cranking a hidden dial.
Snares cracked like they were challenging the cold to a fight. Basses landed with a physical force that rearranged ribcages. Cymbals punched through the air with bright metallic authority. And the tenor drums? Their pitch swept up and down in fast, fluid runs like someone bending the stadium’s pulse, shaping the energy in real time.
Fans didn’t just cheer. They lost their minds in perfect Pittsburgh fashion. Terrible Towels became high-speed propellers. People danced like the ground itself was amplifying them. Even the most frozen, half-gloved, “I’m just waiting for kickoff” people were suddenly shouting and clapping along with every "Here we go Steelers" chant.
Every stop gathered new clusters of people who refused to leave. The drumline moved, and the crowd moved with them in a roaring black-and-gold river energized by rhythm and questionable tailgate beverages.
Then came the final surge toward the stadium. By then, the rain was long gone, replaced by a cold that felt razor-edged. Didn’t matter. Twenty-seven drummers moving as a single living pulse cut through that chill like a furnace on legs. Fans swarmed around them, shouting, chanting, matching their tempo, following them right to the gates as if the beat itself was pulling them in.
This is the part of Pittsburgh I love capturing—the raw, unfiltered, unmistakable charge this city produces when something big is about to happen. And every partnership I have across the city adds another thread to that story.
Kickoff came later. But the real spark? It hit hours before anyone touched a football… Delivered by 27 drummers who turned a miserable gray day into a full-blown electric storm.
