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I love Wilco. You love Wilco. President Obama loves Wilco, and God in her infinite wisdom probably loves Wilco too. But there’s a reason Wilco is not my favorite band, and that’s because they’ve always failed to stir a passion in me. They’re just way too good.

Every band that’s ever worn the mantle of My Absolute Favorite has made at least one shitty album, and that’s why I love them. The Strokes, Interpol, the Libertines—all these bands have taken me on emotional roller coasters, forcing me to suffer through terrible sophomore releases, solo projects, crack binges and jail time. They’ve treated me mean and kept me keen. And it’s only severe battered listener’s syndrome that keeps Wilco from being my all-time favorite band. Wilco is the nice guy who’ll have cooked me dinner when I come home in the evening and would eagerly sit and listen to me talk about my day.  I want the guy who’s down at the local dive with another girl on his arm. Musically, of course.

So it goes without saying that Wilco’s eighth album, “The Whole Love,” doesn’t disappoint. In fact, “disappoint” doesn’t seem to be in their vocabulary, in terms of their music or commercial success. Each album charts higher than the last, and they’ve managed to win multiple Grammys without losing even an ounce of indie cred. Any band would be envious. And with “The Whole Love,” Wilco has once again managed what so few can: that perfect balance between growth and consistency that keeps the fans satiated and the critics on their toes.

Opener “Art of Almost” is Wilco at their most adventurous, as if in an attempt to silence any whispers about old men going soft straight off the bat. Shortly after the halfway mark, the track shifts from a smooth, chill, and surprising soulful but nonetheless straightforward affair to an all-out head-banger, featuring a squealing solo that finds lead guitarist Nels Cline channeling Slash.

Having quite thoroughly proven a point with the “Art of Almost,” the tone relaxes, and tracks like “I Might,” “Dawned on Me,” and “Born Alone” showcase the band at their lightest and most upbeat. It’s here that the album soars. With nothing left to prove, Wilco lovingly sets about crafting the familiar, the tracks their most loyal fans are waiting to hear. The closer, “One Sunday Morning,” is one of their best tracks since “Jesus, etc.” It’s simple, bare, and beautifully frail, and of all the songs I’ve known that pass the ten-minute mark, this feels by far the shortest.

Wilco doesn’t break new ground on the “The Whole Love,” but that hardly matters. They make all the required gestures towards musical maturation, but most importantly remain loyal to the sort of songs that made us all love them in the first place. Wilco may not be my favorite band, but they’re quite deservedly everyone else’s.