New York City, 1966. Jimmyi Hendris walked into Manny’s Music on 48th Street, the most famous guitar store in America. He was broke, unknown, and just wanted to try a Stratacastaster. The store employee took one look at him, a black guy with an afro holding the guitar upside down, and said, “That’s not how you hold a guitar, buddy.
You’re going to break it.” What happened in the next 90 seconds made that employee quit the music business because he realized he’d just insulted the greatest guitarist who would ever live. It was a Tuesday afternoon in March and Manny’s music was having a slow day. The store was legendary in New York, maybe in all of America.
Every serious musician who came through the city stopped at Manny’s. Bob Dylan had bought guitars there. Paul Simon was a regular. The walls were covered with autographed photos of famous musicians holding instruments they’d purchased from the store. Working behind the counter that day was Frank Morrison, a 28-year-old guitarist who’d given up on making it as a professional musician and taken a day job selling instruments instead.
Frank considered himself an expert. He’d been playing guitar since he was 12. He knew every model, every brand, and every technical specification. and he had very strong opinions about the right way to play. Around 2:30 p.m., the door opened and a young black man walked in. He was thin, maybe 23 years old, wearing jeans and a worn denim jacket.
His hair was a wild afro that added another 6 in to his height. He looked nervous, like he wasn’t sure he belonged there. Frank had seen this before. kids who came in to waste time to touch guitars they couldn’t afford to pretend they were rock stars for 15 minutes before getting kicked out. He immediately pegged this guy as a time waster.
“Can I help you?” Frank asked, his tone making it clear he didn’t really want to help. “Yeah, man,” the young guy said, his voice soft and polite. “I was wondering if I could try some guitars. I’m looking to buy one if I find the right one.” Frank doubted that the guy’s clothes were cheap. His shoes worn through at the toes.
He didn’t look like he had money for a sandwich, let alone a guitar. What’s your budget? I’ve got about $60 saved up. Frank almost laughed. $60? The cheapest guitar in the store was $200. Look, man, I don’t think we have anything in your price range. Maybe try one of the pawn shops on Third Avenue. The young guy’s face fell, but he didn’t leave.
Could I just try one just to see what I’m saving for? I’ve never played a real Fender before. Frank sighed. It was a slow day and technically the store policy was to let anyone try the guitars. Fine, but you touch it, you buy it if you break it. Got it. Got it. The young man walked over to where the Fender Stratacasters hung on the wall. His eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store.
He reached for a white Strat, the same model that Buddy Holly had made famous. His hands were shaking slightly as he took it off the wall. That’s when Frank noticed something strange. The guy was left-handed, and instead of asking for a left-handed guitar, he just turned the right-handed Stratacastaster upside down and held it that way with the high strings where the low strings should be, the whole thing backwards.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Frank said, rushing over. “What are you doing? You’re holding it wrong. The young man looked confused. I’m left-handed. This is how I play. That’s not how you play left-handed, man. You need a left-handed guitar. You can’t just flip a right-handed guitar upside down. The strings are in the wrong order. The controls are backwards.
You’re going to break it playing like that. I’ve been playing like this for 8 years, the young man said quietly. I can’t afford a left-handed guitar, so I rering right-handed ones upside down. Frank shook his head. That’s not how it’s supposed to be done. Look, I don’t want to be a jerk, but if you don’t know basic stuff like this, maybe you’re not ready for a fender.
These are professional instruments. Something flashed in the young man’s eyes. Not anger exactly, more like disappointment, like he’d heard this before and was tired of it. Can I just try it just for a minute? Frank was about to say no, but there were two other customers in the store now, browsing the acoustic section, and he didn’t want to make a scene. Fine, one minute.
But if you damage it, I know I’ll buy it. The young man walked over to one of the small practice amps in the corner. He plugged in the Stratacaster, still holding it upside down, and sat down on the stool. Frank went back to the counter, shaking his head. Some people just didn’t want to learn the right way to do things.
The young man adjusted the amp settings, turned up the volume a bit, twisted the tone knobs on the guitar. Frank watched, waiting for him to make a fool of himself. Then the young man started to play. The first note that came out of that amplifier made Frank’s head snap up. It wasn’t a note really. It was more like a scream, a sustained, distorted whale that seemed to come from somewhere beyond the guitar, beyond the amp, beyond the physical world.
Then the riff started. Frank had never heard anything like it. The young man’s fingers were flying across the fretboard, but not in any pattern Frank recognized. He was bending strings in ways that shouldn’t be possible, hitting notes that shouldn’t exist on a standard guitar. His right hand, no, his left hand, it was confusing because everything was backwards, was doing something with the whammy bar that made the guitar sound like it was crying, screaming, laughing all at once.
The two customers in the acoustic section stopped what they were doing and turned to look. The sound was impossible to ignore. It filled the entire store, vibrating through the floor, rattling the guitars on the walls. The young man’s eyes were closed now. His whole body was moving with the music. And the music, it was like nothing Frank had ever heard. It was blues but angrier.
It was rock and roll but weirder. It was jazz but harder. It was everything and nothing. Familiar and alien at the same time. Frank realized his mouth was hanging open. He closed it. Then it fell open again. The riff the young man was playing was simple in structure but impossibly complex in execution. Every note was perfectly placed, perfectly timed, but each one had a different emotional weight.
Some notes growled, some shrieked, some whispered, and underneath it all was a rhythm that made your body move whether you wanted to or not. One of the customers, a middle-aged man in a suit, had set down the acoustic guitar he’d been examining and walked closer. He was staring at the young man like he was watching a magic trick and couldn’t figure out how it was done.
The young man started singing, his voice raspy and urgent. Purple haze all in my brain. Lately, things just don’t seem the same. The lyrics were strange, psychedelic, nothing like the standard blues or rock songs that Frank was used to, but they fit perfectly with the otherworldly sounds coming from the guitar.
It was like Jimmy was painting pictures with sound, creating colors that didn’t exist in the normal spectrum. Frank noticed other things, too. The way Jimmy’s fingers seemed to know exactly where to go without looking. The way he used the guitar’s volume knob as an instrument itself, swelling notes in and out. The way he made mistakes, if you could call them mistakes, and immediately turned them into something intentional, something beautiful.
This wasn’t someone who’d learned guitar from a teacher or a book. This was someone who discovered guitar like Columbus discovered America by getting lost and finding something better than what he was looking for. Frank’s legs felt weak. He realized he was witnessing something that would change music forever. This wasn’t just good playing. This wasn’t just talent.
This was genius. This was someone who understood the guitar on a level that Frank, after 16 years of playing, would never reach. The song, if you could call it a song, it seemed more like a religious experience, went on for about 90 seconds. Every moment was filled with sounds Frank didn’t know a guitar could make.
Feedback that was somehow musical distortion that was somehow beautiful. Chaos that was somehow perfectly controlled. When the young man played the final chord and let it ring out, feedback screaming through the amp. The store was dead silent except for that sustained note fading into nothing. The young man opened his eyes. He looked embarrassed, like he’d done something wrong.
He quickly turned off the amp and started to unplug the guitar. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I got a little carried away. I know it was loud.” “Who are you?” Frank heard himself asking, his voice barely above a whisper. “My name’s Jimmy.” “Jimmy Hris.” “Where did you learn to play like that?” Jimmy shrugged. “Nowhere, really. I just taught myself.
Listened to a lot of records. Blues mostly. some R&B. The customer in the suit spoke up. Young man, I’m Howard Stein. I book concerts at the Village Theater. Have you ever played professionally? I’ve done some backup work. Played for Little Richard for a while, the Eley brothers, but nothing on my own. Howard pulled out a business card and handed it to Jimmy.
Call me tomorrow. I want to book you. Frank just stood there frozen behind the counter. He was trying to process what he just heard, trying to fit it into his understanding of how guitars worked, how music worked, and he couldn’t. It didn’t fit. It was like Jimmy had been playing a completely different instrument, one that existed in a dimension Frank couldn’t access.
“Sir,” Jimmy said, looking at Frank. “I’m really sorry if I played it wrong. I know you said I was holding it backwards.” “No,” Frank interrupted, his voice shaking. I’m sorry. I was wrong. You You weren’t holding it wrong. That was I’ve never He couldn’t finish the sentence. He literally didn’t have words for what he just witnessed.
The other customer, a younger guy who’d been looking at drum kits, walked over. “Dude, that was insane. What was that song?” “Something I’ve been working on,” Jimmy said. “It’s not finished yet. We’ll finish it. That’s going to be huge.” Jimmy smiled, shy and uncertain. He carefully hung the stratacastaster back on the wall, treating it like something sacred. “So,” he said to Frank.
“I guess I’ll keep saving up. Maybe in a few months I can afford.” “Wait,” Frank said. He walked over to the wall and took down the white Stratacastaster that Jimmy had been playing. “This guitar, it’s yours. I told you I only have $60.” “I don’t want $60. I want you to take this guitar right now for free. Jimmy looked confused. I don’t understand.
Frank felt tears forming in his eyes, which was embarrassing, but he didn’t care. I’ve been playing guitar for 16 years. I thought I knew everything about it. I thought there was a right way and a wrong way. And then you walked in here holding the guitar wrong and you played something that made me realize I don’t know anything.
You’re going to change music. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. And I want to be able to say I gave you your first professional guitar. Man, I can’t accept that. It’s too much. Please, Frank said, let me do this. In 10 years, when you’re famous, maybe you’ll remember the guy who said you were holding it wrong, and maybe you’ll forgive me for being an idiot.
Jimmy stood there holding the guitar case that Frank had packed for him, looking like he might cry, too. I won’t forget, he said. Thank you. After Jimmy left, Frank sat down on the stool where Jimmy had just been sitting. His hands were still shaking. Howard Stein, the promoter, walked over.
“Did you know who that was?” Howard asked. “No.” “Do you?” “Not yet, but mark my words, in a year, everyone will.” Frank never saw Jimmyi Hendris again in person. But 8 months later, he heard Purple Haze on the radio for the first time. that riff, that impossible, beautiful, earthshattering riff, and he started crying right there in his apartment.
A year after that, Jimmy played Woodstock. Two years after that, he was on the cover of Rolling Stone. 3 years after that, he was dead at 27, having changed rock and roll forever in the brief time he’d been given. Frank Morrison kept working at Manny’s Music for another 5 years. Then he quit. He couldn’t do it anymore. Every time someone picked up a guitar, he compared them to Jimmy.
And everyone, everyone fell short. In 1975, Frank opened a small music school in Brooklyn. He talked guitar to kids who couldn’t afford fancy lessons. And the first thing he told every new student on their very first day was this. I once told the greatest guitarist who ever lived that he was holding his guitar wrong.
And then I heard him play and I realized he wasn’t doing it wrong. He was doing it different. And different isn’t wrong. Different is how you change the world. So I don’t want you to play guitar the right way. I want you to play it your way. And maybe if I’m lucky, one of you will be the next person who shows me I don’t know anything.
In 2015, a filmmaker making a documentary about Manny’s music tracked down Frank Morrison, who was 77 years old by then. They asked him about all the famous musicians who’d come through the store over the years, all the legends he’d met. The only one who matters, Frank said, was the one I told he was doing it wrong.
Jimmyi Hendris taught me the most important lesson I ever learned. Not about music, about humility, about recognizing genius even when it doesn’t look like what you expected. Especially when it doesn’t look like what you expected. Frank died in 2017. At his funeral, his daughter played Purple Haze. And in his coffin, tucked beside him was a photo from Manny’s Music circa 1967.
It showed Jimmyi Hendris, already famous by then, holding a white stratacastaster. On the back, in Jimmy’s handwriting, it said to Frank, “You were right. I was holding it wrong. I should have been holding it even more upside down. Thanks for the push, Jimmy.” Because that was Jimmy. Even when someone insulted him, even when someone underestimated him, he found a way to turn it into kindness.
The white stratacastaster that Frank gave Jimmy that day was lost to history. Jimmy probably sold it or traded it for something else. But the moment lives on. The moment when a broke kid with a backwards guitar showed a know-it-all employee that there’s no such thing as the wrong way to change the world. If this story moved you, remember the next person who does things differently might just be the next person who changes everything.
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Guitar Store Owner Told Jimi Hendrix “You’re Holding It WRONG” — Then He Played Purple Haze
New York City, 1966. Jimmyi Hendris walked into Manny’s Music on 48th Street, the most famous guitar store in America. He was broke, unknown, and just wanted to try a Stratacastaster. The store employee took one look at him, a black guy with an afro holding the guitar upside down, and said, “That’s not how you hold a guitar, buddy.
You’re going to break it.” What happened in the next 90 seconds made that employee quit the music business because he realized he’d just insulted the greatest guitarist who would ever live. It was a Tuesday afternoon in March and Manny’s music was having a slow day. The store was legendary in New York, maybe in all of America.
Every serious musician who came through the city stopped at Manny’s. Bob Dylan had bought guitars there. Paul Simon was a regular. The walls were covered with autographed photos of famous musicians holding instruments they’d purchased from the store. Working behind the counter that day was Frank Morrison, a 28-year-old guitarist who’d given up on making it as a professional musician and taken a day job selling instruments instead.
Frank considered himself an expert. He’d been playing guitar since he was 12. He knew every model, every brand, and every technical specification. and he had very strong opinions about the right way to play. Around 2:30 p.m., the door opened and a young black man walked in. He was thin, maybe 23 years old, wearing jeans and a worn denim jacket.
His hair was a wild afro that added another 6 in to his height. He looked nervous, like he wasn’t sure he belonged there. Frank had seen this before. kids who came in to waste time to touch guitars they couldn’t afford to pretend they were rock stars for 15 minutes before getting kicked out. He immediately pegged this guy as a time waster.
“Can I help you?” Frank asked, his tone making it clear he didn’t really want to help. “Yeah, man,” the young guy said, his voice soft and polite. “I was wondering if I could try some guitars. I’m looking to buy one if I find the right one.” Frank doubted that the guy’s clothes were cheap. His shoes worn through at the toes.
He didn’t look like he had money for a sandwich, let alone a guitar. What’s your budget? I’ve got about $60 saved up. Frank almost laughed. $60? The cheapest guitar in the store was $200. Look, man, I don’t think we have anything in your price range. Maybe try one of the pawn shops on Third Avenue. The young guy’s face fell, but he didn’t leave.
Could I just try one just to see what I’m saving for? I’ve never played a real Fender before. Frank sighed. It was a slow day and technically the store policy was to let anyone try the guitars. Fine, but you touch it, you buy it if you break it. Got it. Got it. The young man walked over to where the Fender Stratacasters hung on the wall. His eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store.
He reached for a white Strat, the same model that Buddy Holly had made famous. His hands were shaking slightly as he took it off the wall. That’s when Frank noticed something strange. The guy was left-handed, and instead of asking for a left-handed guitar, he just turned the right-handed Stratacastaster upside down and held it that way with the high strings where the low strings should be, the whole thing backwards.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Frank said, rushing over. “What are you doing? You’re holding it wrong. The young man looked confused. I’m left-handed. This is how I play. That’s not how you play left-handed, man. You need a left-handed guitar. You can’t just flip a right-handed guitar upside down. The strings are in the wrong order. The controls are backwards.
You’re going to break it playing like that. I’ve been playing like this for 8 years, the young man said quietly. I can’t afford a left-handed guitar, so I rering right-handed ones upside down. Frank shook his head. That’s not how it’s supposed to be done. Look, I don’t want to be a jerk, but if you don’t know basic stuff like this, maybe you’re not ready for a fender.
These are professional instruments. Something flashed in the young man’s eyes. Not anger exactly, more like disappointment, like he’d heard this before and was tired of it. Can I just try it just for a minute? Frank was about to say no, but there were two other customers in the store now, browsing the acoustic section, and he didn’t want to make a scene. Fine, one minute.
But if you damage it, I know I’ll buy it. The young man walked over to one of the small practice amps in the corner. He plugged in the Stratacaster, still holding it upside down, and sat down on the stool. Frank went back to the counter, shaking his head. Some people just didn’t want to learn the right way to do things.
The young man adjusted the amp settings, turned up the volume a bit, twisted the tone knobs on the guitar. Frank watched, waiting for him to make a fool of himself. Then the young man started to play. The first note that came out of that amplifier made Frank’s head snap up. It wasn’t a note really. It was more like a scream, a sustained, distorted whale that seemed to come from somewhere beyond the guitar, beyond the amp, beyond the physical world.
Then the riff started. Frank had never heard anything like it. The young man’s fingers were flying across the fretboard, but not in any pattern Frank recognized. He was bending strings in ways that shouldn’t be possible, hitting notes that shouldn’t exist on a standard guitar. His right hand, no, his left hand, it was confusing because everything was backwards, was doing something with the whammy bar that made the guitar sound like it was crying, screaming, laughing all at once.
The two customers in the acoustic section stopped what they were doing and turned to look. The sound was impossible to ignore. It filled the entire store, vibrating through the floor, rattling the guitars on the walls. The young man’s eyes were closed now. His whole body was moving with the music. And the music, it was like nothing Frank had ever heard. It was blues but angrier.
It was rock and roll but weirder. It was jazz but harder. It was everything and nothing. Familiar and alien at the same time. Frank realized his mouth was hanging open. He closed it. Then it fell open again. The riff the young man was playing was simple in structure but impossibly complex in execution. Every note was perfectly placed, perfectly timed, but each one had a different emotional weight.
Some notes growled, some shrieked, some whispered, and underneath it all was a rhythm that made your body move whether you wanted to or not. One of the customers, a middle-aged man in a suit, had set down the acoustic guitar he’d been examining and walked closer. He was staring at the young man like he was watching a magic trick and couldn’t figure out how it was done.
The young man started singing, his voice raspy and urgent. Purple haze all in my brain. Lately, things just don’t seem the same. The lyrics were strange, psychedelic, nothing like the standard blues or rock songs that Frank was used to, but they fit perfectly with the otherworldly sounds coming from the guitar.
It was like Jimmy was painting pictures with sound, creating colors that didn’t exist in the normal spectrum. Frank noticed other things, too. The way Jimmy’s fingers seemed to know exactly where to go without looking. The way he used the guitar’s volume knob as an instrument itself, swelling notes in and out. The way he made mistakes, if you could call them mistakes, and immediately turned them into something intentional, something beautiful.
This wasn’t someone who’d learned guitar from a teacher or a book. This was someone who discovered guitar like Columbus discovered America by getting lost and finding something better than what he was looking for. Frank’s legs felt weak. He realized he was witnessing something that would change music forever. This wasn’t just good playing. This wasn’t just talent.
This was genius. This was someone who understood the guitar on a level that Frank, after 16 years of playing, would never reach. The song, if you could call it a song, it seemed more like a religious experience, went on for about 90 seconds. Every moment was filled with sounds Frank didn’t know a guitar could make.
Feedback that was somehow musical distortion that was somehow beautiful. Chaos that was somehow perfectly controlled. When the young man played the final chord and let it ring out, feedback screaming through the amp. The store was dead silent except for that sustained note fading into nothing. The young man opened his eyes. He looked embarrassed, like he’d done something wrong.
He quickly turned off the amp and started to unplug the guitar. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I got a little carried away. I know it was loud.” “Who are you?” Frank heard himself asking, his voice barely above a whisper. “My name’s Jimmy.” “Jimmy Hris.” “Where did you learn to play like that?” Jimmy shrugged. “Nowhere, really. I just taught myself.
Listened to a lot of records. Blues mostly. some R&B. The customer in the suit spoke up. Young man, I’m Howard Stein. I book concerts at the Village Theater. Have you ever played professionally? I’ve done some backup work. Played for Little Richard for a while, the Eley brothers, but nothing on my own. Howard pulled out a business card and handed it to Jimmy.
Call me tomorrow. I want to book you. Frank just stood there frozen behind the counter. He was trying to process what he just heard, trying to fit it into his understanding of how guitars worked, how music worked, and he couldn’t. It didn’t fit. It was like Jimmy had been playing a completely different instrument, one that existed in a dimension Frank couldn’t access.
“Sir,” Jimmy said, looking at Frank. “I’m really sorry if I played it wrong. I know you said I was holding it backwards.” “No,” Frank interrupted, his voice shaking. I’m sorry. I was wrong. You You weren’t holding it wrong. That was I’ve never He couldn’t finish the sentence. He literally didn’t have words for what he just witnessed.
The other customer, a younger guy who’d been looking at drum kits, walked over. “Dude, that was insane. What was that song?” “Something I’ve been working on,” Jimmy said. “It’s not finished yet. We’ll finish it. That’s going to be huge.” Jimmy smiled, shy and uncertain. He carefully hung the stratacastaster back on the wall, treating it like something sacred. “So,” he said to Frank.
“I guess I’ll keep saving up. Maybe in a few months I can afford.” “Wait,” Frank said. He walked over to the wall and took down the white Stratacastaster that Jimmy had been playing. “This guitar, it’s yours. I told you I only have $60.” “I don’t want $60. I want you to take this guitar right now for free. Jimmy looked confused. I don’t understand.
Frank felt tears forming in his eyes, which was embarrassing, but he didn’t care. I’ve been playing guitar for 16 years. I thought I knew everything about it. I thought there was a right way and a wrong way. And then you walked in here holding the guitar wrong and you played something that made me realize I don’t know anything.
You’re going to change music. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. And I want to be able to say I gave you your first professional guitar. Man, I can’t accept that. It’s too much. Please, Frank said, let me do this. In 10 years, when you’re famous, maybe you’ll remember the guy who said you were holding it wrong, and maybe you’ll forgive me for being an idiot.
Jimmy stood there holding the guitar case that Frank had packed for him, looking like he might cry, too. I won’t forget, he said. Thank you. After Jimmy left, Frank sat down on the stool where Jimmy had just been sitting. His hands were still shaking. Howard Stein, the promoter, walked over.
“Did you know who that was?” Howard asked. “No.” “Do you?” “Not yet, but mark my words, in a year, everyone will.” Frank never saw Jimmyi Hendris again in person. But 8 months later, he heard Purple Haze on the radio for the first time. that riff, that impossible, beautiful, earthshattering riff, and he started crying right there in his apartment.
A year after that, Jimmy played Woodstock. Two years after that, he was on the cover of Rolling Stone. 3 years after that, he was dead at 27, having changed rock and roll forever in the brief time he’d been given. Frank Morrison kept working at Manny’s Music for another 5 years. Then he quit. He couldn’t do it anymore. Every time someone picked up a guitar, he compared them to Jimmy.
And everyone, everyone fell short. In 1975, Frank opened a small music school in Brooklyn. He talked guitar to kids who couldn’t afford fancy lessons. And the first thing he told every new student on their very first day was this. I once told the greatest guitarist who ever lived that he was holding his guitar wrong.
And then I heard him play and I realized he wasn’t doing it wrong. He was doing it different. And different isn’t wrong. Different is how you change the world. So I don’t want you to play guitar the right way. I want you to play it your way. And maybe if I’m lucky, one of you will be the next person who shows me I don’t know anything.
In 2015, a filmmaker making a documentary about Manny’s music tracked down Frank Morrison, who was 77 years old by then. They asked him about all the famous musicians who’d come through the store over the years, all the legends he’d met. The only one who matters, Frank said, was the one I told he was doing it wrong.
Jimmyi Hendris taught me the most important lesson I ever learned. Not about music, about humility, about recognizing genius even when it doesn’t look like what you expected. Especially when it doesn’t look like what you expected. Frank died in 2017. At his funeral, his daughter played Purple Haze. And in his coffin, tucked beside him was a photo from Manny’s Music circa 1967.
It showed Jimmyi Hendris, already famous by then, holding a white stratacastaster. On the back, in Jimmy’s handwriting, it said to Frank, “You were right. I was holding it wrong. I should have been holding it even more upside down. Thanks for the push, Jimmy.” Because that was Jimmy. Even when someone insulted him, even when someone underestimated him, he found a way to turn it into kindness.
The white stratacastaster that Frank gave Jimmy that day was lost to history. Jimmy probably sold it or traded it for something else. But the moment lives on. The moment when a broke kid with a backwards guitar showed a know-it-all employee that there’s no such thing as the wrong way to change the world. If this story moved you, remember the next person who does things differently might just be the next person who changes everything.
Subscribe for more stories about the moments when legends proved everyone
