The Crane Wives

The Crane Wives, a folk-rock band that started in Grand Rapids, Michigan puts on a brilliant show. They’ve sold out Saint Andrew’s Hall in Detroit, and most (all?) of the stops on their summer tour. We’re tucked in the back of the crowd and the four band members stand on stage, wailing and shredding it out.

I’m gonna be honest here that I haven’t followed the band, just know a couple songs that my spouse and I listen to. I’m mostly at the show because I went to high school with the bassist.

(Another friend we’re with keeps shouting the bassist’s name from, literally, the back corner of the venue, resulting in stares from grumpy old men who don’t like fun and take their indie rock too seriously, apparently lolol.)

We waited until the last possible second to get in line. It wrapped around the corner in downtown Detroit for an hour and a half. We sweated it out at the Detroiter Bar—one hardworking oscillating fan for the whole joint—and watched the line stream by. Only a handful of people joined after us.

The crowd is a mix of all different ages. A lot of younger kids, dressed in folky, ethereal layers, wearing beaded bracelets in queer flag colors and pronoun pins. Plenty of people our age and older, dressed in far more boring jeans and t-shirt kind of outfits. It’s an impressive cross-demographic audience.

My spouse and I lean against the bar, serendipitously on the bassist’s side. He comes out on stage with a huge smile. I used to ride the school bus with this guy and he played “Seven Nation Army” non-stop on his tenor sax in marching band. I’m so happy for him that I nearly cry.

In front of us, there’s a pair of younger kids. One of them knows every single word to every single song. I hold back the urge to be that weird old person who asks them if this is their favorite band, but I get a kick out of their joy.

Part way through the show, one of the (female) leader singers tells us they’ve been a band for fifteen years. That playing in front of a crowd like this is a miracle. That for years, they’d tour for months only to play for empty rooms.

As of this writing, The Crane Wives have 1.3 million monthly listeners on Spotify. The Decemberists, who inspired The Crane Wives’s name, are on The Hunger Games soundtrack, and have been around since 2001, have 805,300 monthly listeners. According to Wikipedia, The Crane Wives “had previously attempted to open for The Decemberists at a show at Calvin College, but were unable to secure the spot.” The Crane Wives is the favorite band of the daughter of our other friend with us. She’s thirteen years old. (And out of the country so not in attendance.)

As it turns out, there’s a Minecraft-related video from 2022 featuring “Curses” by The Crane Wives that, as of this writing, has 3.4 million views. In 2022, The Crane Wives hadn’t released a studio album since 2016 (there was a live album in 2020). Their song “The Moon Will Sing” (one of my favorites), released in 2015, has been popular on TikTok. In 2024, they released their first studio album, Beyond Beyond Beyond, in eight years. This summer, they’re touring it to sold out audiences.

Now, I don’t know anything about the personal lives of The Crane Wives or the “true” story behind the band. I don’t know how hard they worked over those fifteen years promoting their music, or if they have day jobs or rich families or whatever to support their art and touring.

But as a fellow artist, their story is inspiring. I know that music and books aren’t exactly comparable, but this show is packed with people who were very young, or not even born, when the band formed. They stream out of here in awe, talking about how life changing the show was. The Instagram videos that the band re-shares has similar sentiments: “oh my fucking god,” “most cathartic experience of my life,” “peak,” “had a religious experience tonight.”

In the days of instant virality and flash-in-the-pan bestsellers, it’s cathartic for me to experience The Crane Wives’s story. A solid example that the work is the work. To be dedicated to art, to perseve regardless of praise, recognition, or immediate results. Art—the work—is an ongoing process requiring continuous engagement. It’s a reminder to stay grounded in the creation, even if it’s murky down here.

“Tell me I am good enough,” they sing in “Curses.” Maybe no one needs to tell me anything. Maybe none of that matters at all.