So many great artists throughout modern music history have had their Muscle Shoals moment, from soul icons Aretha Franklin and Etta James to rock royalty like the Stones and Bob Dylan. Son Little’s Aaron Livingston made the most of his recent opportunity to record at the legendary studio through a special incentive program run by Florence, Ala.’s Shoals Economic Development Authority. Bolstered by a healthy reimbursement on production costs, he came away with Cityfolk. His fifth LP in 11 years for the Anti- label affectionately surveys a vast spectrum of soul, R&B, blues and folk influences as it embarks on a somewhat messy reclamation of self-identity and family pride.
MAGNET’s Hobart Rowland stole a window with Livingston shortly before he headed to Europe for the start of an extensive international tour.
Tell us about the new album and its title. Is there a theme or concept working here?
Cityfolk came together during a pretty chaotic stretch of life. A lot was shifting around me—personally and otherwise—and the songs started to reflect that. They’re about love, loss, doubt and trying to find a little peace in the middle of the noise. The title felt right because it points to that tension: people trying to live human lives in environments that are constantly moving. It’s not really a concept album, but the songs share a perspective: holding on, letting go and learning how to breathe again when things feel heavy.
What was it like working with Alabama Shakes’ Ben Tanner for this LP, and how did the legendary Muscle Shoals locale contribute to the vibe?
Working with Ben felt natural from the start. He has this way of balancing instinct and craft. He understands the technical side deeply, but he also knows when to get out of the way of a song. We produced the record together and spent a lot of time side by side engineering and mixing, which made it feel less like a traditional producer/artist relationship and more like two people trying to follow the music wherever it wanted to go.
Muscle Shoals has a kind of gravity to it. There’s a long lineage of music that came through those rooms—songs that were simple but powerful, honest in a way that doesn’t feel forced. Being there reminds you what matters. You start thinking more about whether the song is telling the truth.The Shoals Music Makers program made it possible for us to spend real time there, which was important. A lot of the record came together through patience—letting ideas breathe, letting the room shape the sound a little bit. Strangely, the environment encouraged us to keep things unfussy. Just follow the feeling and trust the song.
Your sound is so fluid. How would you describe it?
I’ve never really started with genre in mind. I grew up listening to a lot of different music—soul, blues, hip hop, folk—and those sounds just live together in my head. When I’m writing, I’m not thinking about where it fits. I’m thinking about what the song needs. So, if it’s hard to pin down, that’s probably a good sign. It means the music is still moving.
You’ve lived all over the country. What brought you to Atlanta area, and what it is about the city that feels right to you?
Atlanta felt like a place where different worlds could exist side by side without stepping on each other. There’s history here, but there’s also a kind of openness to what comes next. After moving around for years, it felt like a good place to land—somewhere I could work, think and build a life without too much noise about what box you belong in. It’s a city with its own rhythm, and that rhythm made sense to me.
Where do you stand on spirituality, and how does it guide your music?
My father was a preacher, so those ideas have always been part of the air I breathe. But for me, it’s less about doctrine and more about awareness. Music can be a way of listening for something deeper, whether that’s truth, compassion or just a moment of clarity. A lot of my songs come from that place—trying to make sense of the world and maybe find a little grace in the middle of it.
See Son Little live.
