It’s risky business to write about people you like, makes it hard to be objective. You don’t want to hurt feelings, don’t want to offend. You want them to like you as much as you like them. Human nature, you know?

Well, full disclosure: I like Goldfinch. Aaron Stevens and Grace Sullivan are two of the most humble, sincere and kind musicians — hell, people — I’ve met. They’re siblings-in-law (Stevens is married to Sullivan’s sister), working folks, and parents — like me, and maybe like you, only nicer.

We had lunch the other day at Pho Bac Café, a noodle place near 11th and MLK. I’d never had pho. I’d never even spoken the word pho. They helped me order and didn’t laugh as I dorked my chopsticks and continually lost my spoon in my bowl. And they wouldn’t let me pay. And once, when doe-eyed Grace Sullivan maybe, possibly, accidentally interrupted me, she clasped her hand over her mouth in horror. The shame!

What kind of band is this, anyway?

It’s a very likable band — that’s what. Listen to their finely-crafted, self-produced, locally-grown, self-titled debut album, or watch them for 30 seconds onstage, and you’ll know right away what I mean. They just radiate warmth and goodness. And their folksy, earthy songs — especially the tightly-wrought, pitch-perfect harmonies — make you feel warm and good.

There’s room for improvement, of course. They’re solid, but not great instrumentalists (excellent sidemen help). Their writing sometimes falls back on folk-country tropes, while their own words ring far truer. And I find myself wanting more — that epic chorus, that one transcendent, incandescent moment, the big “Ah!” But that’s only because they’re so likable; you just want more to like. And they’ll probably never give it to you, because they’re too damn modest. And that’s exactly how it should be.

Stevens, who was unemployed at the time of recording, put it all on the line to make the record he calls his “big middle finger to the world.” I see the sentiment, but the image doesn’t fit. It seems more like a firm, friendly handshake.

[The New Frontier Lounge, CD Release with David Bazan, Saturday, April 25, 9 p.m., $10, 301 E. 25th St., Tacoma, 253.572.4020]