I didn't know/suspect that Aaron Neville was a...

..."rosary rattler."

This is a nice story about the singer that offers more than a glimpse of the experience of growing up on the rough streets of New Orleans.

Speaking of stereotypes, Neville's story offers this counter-agent to the usual narrative about life in the South before the Civil Rights movement, as well as something refreshingly different from the usual trope about mean nuns:

The possibility of reaching God through song would also stick with Neville. His father attended Trinity Methodist Church across the street from their home on Valence Street in New Orleans. Aaron and his brothers would occasionally sing in the choir. But his mother, Amelia, was a Catholic, and her sons would be raised in her faith.


At Amelia’s insistence, the Neville children attended St. Monica’s Catholic School. Nearly 60 years later, Aaron Neville recalls the experience with fondness: “St. Monica’s was always a safe place for me. Between that and my mom, I was taught morals—something the world is lacking today a lot.”

In addition to morals, the catechism, and the poem “Lovely Lady Dressed in Blue,” Neville learned something else from the white sisters who taught in the all-black school: racial tolerance and brotherhood. All these years later, he cannot forget their witness. “They had to run from the Klan, got death threats,” he said. “And that taught me a lot. Even today I don’t see no color. I saw a holy lady, and she was teaching me—they were like my parents away from home.”

St. Monica’s also introduced Aaron to a song that would haunt him for the rest of his days. “I became fascinated by the Ave Maria,” Neville recalls. “I didn’t know the words. I didn’t know what they were talking about, but it just used to do something to my heart. And later on in life, it became a light at the end of the tunnel for whatever I was going through. I would get a cleansing feeling. That sound of praising the Blessed Lady was like a saving grace for me, especially when I was at the bottom of a pit.”

I also like Neville's devotion to St. Jude:
 

Back home in New Orleans, Amelia and Joel Neville were praying novenas at the Shrine of St. Jude on the edge of the French Quarter—praying that the saint of hopeless cases, the saint of last resort, the saint of the impossible would intercede on Aaron’s behalf.


Fingering the St. Jude medallions dangling from his earrings, Neville remembers praying to his “man” himself. While awaiting trial, he returned home on bond. He joined his mother most afternoons at the popular Shrine of St. Ann downtown. Crawling up the steps of the outdoor shrine on his knees, he asked St. Jude to help him to sing, to break free of the drugs, and somehow to deliver him from prison.

On the day of his sentencing in California, Neville was assured that a lenient judge would hear his case. “But the judge was on vacation,” he says, rolling his eyes, “and this other judge was giving out time like it was ice water.”

“I said, ‘I want to get out of here.’ But I knew if I ran I’d never be able to sing, so I had to take my punishment. So I went in front of the judge, and I had my St. Jude prayer book in my pocket and my St. Jude medal. And I’m standing there and that judge said I was found guilty, so he sentenced me to what the law prescribed: one to 14 years. My legs turned to butter. And then he said, ‘But I suspend that sentence.’ I looked over at my lawyer, and he just shook his head. My lawyer was holding me up. So, hey, St. Jude was my man.”

Because while St. Anthony may help you find things, when you are in the deep gimchee, St. Jude is your "go-to guy."