The vinyl on the turntable has a faint, almost imperceptible warp, enough that the arm drifts slightly as it sweeps toward the final grooves. It’s a late-night ritual, the deep dive into 1968, a year that felt like an ending and a beginning all at once—a year where the British Invasion’s bright pop palette was dissolving into shades of psychedelia and roots rock. The air still holds the scent of old paper and dust motes dancing in the cone of the desk lamp. I’m listening for the seam, the audible fault line that runs right through the heart of The Hollies’ career, and nowhere is it more clear than on the US single, “Do The Best You Can.”
This isn’t just a B-side curiosity or an obscure album track; it’s a stunningly detailed piece of music that tells a complicated story. Released in the US in July 1968 (with a subsequent European release as the flip-side to “Listen To Me” later that year), this track emerged from the final, fraught studio sessions featuring the iconic lineup of Allan Clarke, Tony Hicks, and Graham Nash. Their producer, the steady hand of Ron Richards, oversaw a band where the three primary songwriters—Clarke, Hicks, and Nash—were pulling in dramatically different directions. The tension between the commercial, pop-perfect instinct championed by Clarke and Hicks, and Nash’s burgeoning, folk-rock-inspired artistry, was at an absolute fever pitch.
The Unraveling Harmony of a Trio
“Do The Best You Can” wasn’t tied to a UK studio album, landing instead as a late-career single side just as the massive Hollies’ Greatest compilation was dominating the British charts. That retrospective success ironically intensified the band’s internal struggle; the world wanted the clean, bright Hollies of “Bus Stop,” but Nash was already halfway to Laurel Canyon. This song, credited to all three core songwriters, sounds like a beautiful, fragile compromise—the last gasp of their shared, incredible harmony vision before it fractured into two separate, brilliant entities: the ongoing Hollies, and Crosby, Stills & Nash.
The opening is cinematic, a low thrum of acoustic rhythm, followed quickly by the signature multi-part vocal hook. Clarke’s lead vocal, a perfect blend of vulnerability and conviction, is anchored immediately by those impossibly close harmonies from Hicks and Nash. Listening closely, you can hear the slight, almost nervous urgency in their blend, a contrast to the casual brilliance of their earlier hits. It’s the sound of three men working harder than ever to align their voices, knowing that their creative and personal geometry was shifting irrevocably.
The instrumentation is a masterclass in mid-period British pop orchestration, but subtly so. It feels dense, yet clear, proving that Ron Richards and engineer Peter Bown knew exactly how to capture this evolving sound. There is a beautifully recorded piano that forms the harmonic bedrock, played with a sort of rolling, slightly arpeggiated sensibility that keeps the song constantly moving forward. The bassline, reportedly played by Bernie Calvert, is melodic and supportive, rather than just propulsive.
Then there is the guitar work of Tony Hicks. His playing is always a crucial element in The Hollies’ architecture, but here he manages to be both complex and restrained. His electric lead lines dance in the upper register, a glittering counterpoint to the rich vocal block. There is a banjo texture in the mix—often a signature of Nash’s folk leaning in this era—that adds a distinct, high-fretted resonance, reinforcing the slightly rootsy, narrative feel of the lyric. It’s an arrangement that shows The Hollies were fully capable of the sophisticated pop required of the late 60s without sacrificing their core sound.
The Contrast of Grit and Glamour
The lyric itself is a simple but poignant plea for resilience, wrapped in the universal anxiety of being young and uncertain. It’s a contrast of glamour and grit; the vocal performance is pristine, almost heavenly, while the sentiment is entirely grounded in the mundane struggles of a young couple: “If you’ve got a problem and it’s bothering you / Talk it over with me, I know that we’ll see it through.” It’s a sentiment that resonates even now, the timeless simplicity of partnership against a complicated world.
The dynamic shifts in the song are particularly masterful. The verses are intimate, close-mic’d. When the full ensemble hits the chorus, there’s an almost physical swell—the drums, handled with precision by Bobby Elliott, shift from a simple beat to something that feels huge and layered. This is a sound engineered for quality, one that demands premium audio playback to truly appreciate the subtle interplay of the high-end shimmer on the cymbals and the depth of the backing vocals.
“If you want to understand the fragile genius of The Hollies in 1968, you don’t need the hit singles, you need this sound.”
I once watched a young songwriter try to teach himself the chord progression of this song from old sheet music, struggling to reconcile the simple notation with the sheer complexity of the recorded arrangement. What’s on the page is only ever a fraction of The Hollies’ magic. The true art lies in the phrasing, the slight delay in a beat, and the way Graham Nash’s high harmony seems to hang a moment longer than the others, a bell-like sustain that gives the melody its otherworldly lift. This is a band with immense self-awareness, capable of packaging profound feeling into a concise, two-and-a-half-minute radio burst.
The final section, a coda that fades out rather too soon, is pure momentum. It’s as if the track is trying to run away from its own ending, a band determined to keep going even as the foundation beneath them crumbles. Just months later, Nash would be gone, heading west. The fact that they made a piece of music this cohesive, this emotionally rich, in the shadow of such a massive shift, is a testament to the sheer professionalism and innate musicality of this Manchester group.
The ultimate tragedy of the 1968 Hollies is that this creative collision—the psychedelic curiosity meeting the perfect pop craftsmanship—was only truly fruitful for a handful of tracks. But those tracks, like this one, stand as monuments to a pop era that demanded both art and accessibility. It’s a gorgeous record, a reminder that “doing your best” often results in something enduringly beautiful. Give this deep cut a spin. You’ll hear the whole story of 1968 compressed into a stunning, two-minute narrative.
Listening Recommendations (Adjacent Mood/Arrangement)
- The Zombies – “A Rose For Emily” (1968): Shares the same delicate, almost Baroque pop arrangement and poignant, philosophical lyricism.
- The Beach Boys – “Friends” (1968): For the stripped-down, acoustic core and deceptively simple vocal harmonies that carry a deeper sense of melancholy.
- The Beatles – “Blackbird” (1968): Excellent for the way a single acoustic guitar and a poignant, hopeful message can create an intimate, memorable atmosphere.
- The Byrds – “Goin’ Back” (1967): Another example of a legendary harmony group using rich, melodic folk-pop to express existential yearning in the late 60s.
- The Merry-Go-Round – “Live” (1967): Features similarly bright, infectious, and layered harmony pop from the US side of the spectrum, with a driving rhythm.