London, October 1960. 4:47 p.m. Two young men sat on a cold street corner, dirty, exhausted, broke. One had a guitar with two broken strings. The other had a harmonica. An open guitar case sat in front of them with maybe three shillings inside. Enough for half a meal, not enough to matter.

 They were playing for coins, for survival, for the hope that someone would stop, would listen, would care enough to drop something in the case that might keep them alive another day. Nobody stopped. People walked past, hundreds of them, streaming by like they were invisible, like they didn’t exist. Just two more street musicians in a city full of dreamers who’d never make it.

The taller one, John, stopped playing, looked at Paul. This is stupid. We should go home. Admit we failed. Get real jobs. Paul kept playing. We can’t go home. We spent everything getting here. There’s nothing to go back to. Then what? We starve in London instead of starving in Liverpool. At least in Liverpool, we’d starve with dignity.

A man walked past, stopped, turned around, came back. Tall, black coat, dark hair, American accent. He had a little girl with him, maybe 7 years old. She was tugging on his sleeve. Daddy, they sound sad. Can we help them? The man looked at John and Paul. Really? Looked. Not the quick glance people give street musicians before walking past.

A real look. The kind that sees people instead of problems. How long have you boys been out here? He asked. John shrugged. 3 hours today. Every day this week, every day for the past month. Making any money? Paul gestured to the case. Three shillings. Not exactly a fortune. The man knelt down eye level. The way you talk to equals, not charity cases. What are your names? John Lennon.

This is Paul McCartney. I’m Johnny. Johnny Cash. This is my daughter, Roseanne. She’s right. You do sound sad, but not bad sad, good sad, the kind that means something. John looked at this man, this American with the kind face and the daughter who cared about strangers. You a musician? I try to be. Country singer just played a show at the Palladium last night, flying back to America tomorrow, but Roseanne wanted to walk around London, see the city, and we heard you playing.

Sorry if we ruined your walk, Paul said bitterly. We’ll move if you want. Johnny smiled. You didn’t ruin anything. You made it better. That song you were playing. That yours? Yeah, we write our own. Not that anyone cares. I care. Rosen cares. And I’m guessing more people care than you think. They’re just scared to stop. Scared to acknowledge that you exist.

because if they acknowledge you, they have to admit they’re walking past someone struggling, and that’s uncomfortable.” He reached into his coat, pulled out his wallet, took out a 5 lb note, put it in the guitar case. That’s not charity. That’s payment. For the song, for the sadness that made it real.

For the courage it takes to sit on a street corner and play your heart out when everyone walks past like you’re invisible. John stared at the 5 lb. That’s too much. No, it’s not enough, but it’s what I have on me. Now, let me ask you something. Why are you here on this street in London playing for coins? Paul answered, “Because we’re musicians.

Because we write songs. Because we want to make it, want to be heard, want to matter.” “And how’s that working out?” “Obviously not great,” John said. “Hence the street corner, the broken strings, the three shillings.” Johnny sat down on the pavement right there on the cold London street. Roseanne sat next to him.

Let me tell you something. Something I learned the hard way. Something that changed my life. And if you listen, really listen, it might change yours, too. What Johnny Cash said in the next 15 minutes didn’t just help John and Paul survive that day. It became the foundation of everything the Beatles would become.

The philosophy that would guide them through fame, through struggle, through success and failure and everything in between, it became legend. Not because it was profound, because it was true. You’re failing, Johnny said, not because you’re not good enough, but because you’re doing this wrong. You’re sitting on a street corner waiting for people to notice you.

Waiting for someone to give you permission to be musicians. Waiting for the world to acknowledge you exist. And that’s never going to work. You know why? John and Paul shook their heads. Because the world doesn’t give permission. The world takes it away. The world tells you you’re not good enough, not talented enough, not special enough.

And if you wait for the world’s permission, you’ll die on the street corner. Still broke, still invisible, still nobody. He leaned forward. But here’s what you do instead. You stop waiting. You stop asking. You take the permission yourself. You say, “I’m a musician.” Not because someone said so, because I said so.

Because I write songs and play music, and that makes me a musician. Period. No debate, no discussion. That’s what I am. Roseanne was listening intently. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard her father talk like this, but she understood, even at 7, that this was important, that these two sad boys on the street needed to hear this.

I spent years waiting, Johnny continued, waiting for record labels to notice me, waiting for radio stations to play my songs, waiting for someone to tell me I was good enough. And you know what happened? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. until I stopped waiting. Until I walked into Sun Records and told Sam Phillips, “I’m going to record here today now.

Not because you asked me, because I’m telling you.” And he said, “Yes.” Not because I was special, because I believed I was. And belief is contagious. Paul was crying now. Quiet tears. the kind that come from being seen, from being understood, from someone putting into words what you’ve been feeling but couldn’t articulate.

You’re sitting here playing for three shillings, Johnny said. But you should be playing for thousands, for millions. Not because you’re desperate, because you’re talented. And talent doesn’t beg. Talent demands. Talent says, “Here I am. Listen to me.” Not because you want to, because I’m worth listening to.

But how? John asked, “How do we go from the street corner to to anything?” You stop playing for coins. You start playing for stages. You find clubs, pubs, anywhere that has music. And you walk in and say, “We’re playing here tonight.” Not asking, telling. And some will say no. Most will say no. But one will say yes.

And that one yes becomes two, becomes 10, becomes everything. He stood up, dusted off his coat. Here’s what I want you to do tomorrow. Not next week. Not when you feel ready. Tomorrow. You find the biggest club in Liverpool, the one everyone wants to play, and you walk in and tell them you’re playing there.

This week, this month, whenever they’ll have you, and you don’t leave until they say yes. What if they say no? Paul asked. Then you go to the next club and the next and the next until someone says yes because you only need one yes. One person who believes you. One chance to prove you’re worth listening to.

That’s all. One yes. And once you get it, you make sure everyone who sees you that night never forgets you. You play like it’s the most important show of your life because it is. Every show is. Every single one. Roseanne tugged on her father’s coat. Daddy, can we help them more? They need help. Johnny looked at his daughter, then at John and Paul.

You know what? You’re right. We can help. He reached into his wallet again, took out a business card, wrote something on the back, handed it to John. This is my manager’s number in America. If you ever make it big, if you ever record something, send it to him. Tell him Johnny Cash said you were worth listening to. He’ll listen.

might not sign you, but he’ll listen. That’s the start. Why are you doing this? John asked. Why do you care about two nobody kids on a London street? Johnny smiled. Because 10 years ago, I was you. Broke, unknown, desperate, playing for anyone who’d listen. And someone helped me. Someone believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.

And I promised that if I ever made it, I’d do the same. I’d find the kids on street corners and tell them what I wish someone had told me. You’re not invisible. You’re not nobody. You’re musicians. And musicians don’t wait for permission. They take it. He started to walk away. Roseanne waved goodbye.

Then Johnny stopped, turned back. One more thing. The sadness in your music. Don’t lose that. Don’t let success make you happy in a way that ruins your art. The best music comes from pain, from struggle, from being human. You’ve got that now. Hold on to it. Even when things get better, because that’s what makes music real. That’s what makes it last.

The next day, John and Paul went to the Cavern Club, walked in, told the owner they were playing there. The owner laughed. We’re booked for months. Then we’ll play the lunch shift, the early show. Whenever you have a gap, we’ll play for free. Just give us the stage. The owner looked at them. Two kids, confident, not begging, demanding.

Fine. Next Thursday, noon, 30 minutes. Don’t make me regret this. That Thursday, 40 people showed up. The next week, 80. The week after, 120. Within 3 months, the Cavern Club couldn’t hold the crowds. People lined up outside waiting hours just to see these two kids who’d stopped asking permission and started demanding attention.

By 1963, the Beatles were the biggest band in the world, playing for millions, selling out stadiums. Everything Johnny Cash had told them came true. Not because he was prophetic, because he told them the truth. The truth they needed to hear. In 1965, the Beatles were in America. Johnny Cash showed up at their hotel unannounced.

Security almost didn’t let him in, but Paul saw him, let him through. That’s the man who saved our lives. They sat in the hotel room. The Beatles. Johnny Cash. Roseanne, now 12. Do you remember me? Johnny asked. Every day, John said. Every single day. What you said on that street corner. About taking permission instead of waiting for it.

About being musicians because we said so. That changed everything. We think about it before every show, every decision, every moment we’re tempted to wait for someone’s approval. We remember and we take the permission ourselves. Johnny smiled. I’m proud of you boys. You did what I couldn’t. You changed music, changed culture, changed the world, and you stayed real, stayed human.

I can still hear the sadness in your songs, the honesty. That’s what makes you special. We would have quit. Paul admitted that day in London if you hadn’t stopped, if you hadn’t told us those things. We were ready to give up. Go home. Admit we failed. You saved us. I didn’t save you. I just reminded you of what you already were.

Musicians, artists, people worth listening to. You did the rest. Years later, after Johnny Cash died in 2003, Paul gave an interview talked about that day in London about the man who stopped when everyone else walked past. Johnny Cash taught us the most important lesson we ever learned. That talent isn’t about waiting for the world’s approval.

It’s about approving of yourself, believing in yourself, taking the permission to be who you are. We wouldn’t be the Beatles without that lesson. We’d still be two kids on a street corner waiting for someone to notice us. Waiting for permission we’d never get. But there’s more to the story. Something that only came out years later.

Something Roseanne Cash revealed in her own memoir. That day in London wasn’t random. Johnny hadn’t just stumbled upon John and Paul by accident. He’d been looking for them specifically, deliberately. The night before after his show at the Palladium, Johnny had been walking back to his hotel.

heard music coming from an alley, followed it, found two young men playing, watched them for 10 minutes, saw the talent, saw the struggle, saw himself. He’d wanted to help them that night, but they left before he could approach. So the next day, he’d brought Roseanne, walked the same streets, looking for them, hoping to find them again.

Not to give them money, to give them what he wished someone had given him. truth, belief, permission. My father didn’t save people randomly, Roseanne wrote. He was deliberate, strategic. He saw talent and he cultivated it. Not for fame, not for credit, because he believed that talent wasted was a tragedy. And he’d seen too much talent wasted.

Too many people who quit because no one told them they were good enough. that 5B note. Johnny had specifically withdrawn it that morning, hoping he’d find them, hoping he’d get the chance to help. The business card, he’d written his manager’s number on the back the night before. Prepared, ready. He told me years later that finding John and Paul that day was one of the most important things he’d ever done.

Roseanne wrote, “Not because they became the Beatles, because they almost didn’t. because they were hours away from giving up, from going home, from becoming what the world told them they’d be, nobody. And he couldn’t let that happen. In 1970, when the Beatles officially broke up, Johnny sent each of them a letter, personal, handwritten, reminding them of that day in London, reminding them that they were musicians before they were Beatles, that they’d taken permission once, they could take it again.

That breaking up didn’t mean failing, it meant evolving. John kept his letter in his wallet until he died. Paul framed his. George’s was found in his belongings after he passed. Ringo still has his. Each letter said something different, personalized, but they all ended the same way. You took the permission. Never give it back.

Stay human. Stay real. Stay you. October 1960. Johnny Cash met the Beatles before they were famous. Gave them£5. Gave them advice. Gave them the truth. And what he told them became legend. Not the five pounds, the words, the belief, the permission. You’re musicians. Not because someone said so, because you said so. That’s everything.

Look, if this story moved you, do me a favor. Hit that like button. And we’ve now got 71 incredible Beatles stories that prove they weren’t just musicians. They were human beings who struggled, who were helped, who grew, and who changed the world. Drop a comment and let me know. Has anyone ever given you permission to be yourself? Has anyone ever believed in you when you didn’t believe in yourself? Turn those notifications on because these stories never stop being powerful.

Remember, talent doesn’t wait for permission, it takes it. And the Beatles learned that from Johnny Cash on a London street in 1960.