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Introduction

There’s a certain kind of song that sneaks up on you with its subtle emotion and candid storytelling, capturing the essence of personal dilemma and heartfelt reflection. “What’s A Man To Do” is just that type of song. It speaks directly to the soul with its raw narrative of a man caught in the whirlwind of life’s decisions, questioning the paths laid before him.

The song resonates because of its universal theme—every listener finds a piece of their own story mirrored in the lyrics. Whether it’s about making tough choices, dealing with the consequences of those choices, or simply finding one’s way through the complexities of love and responsibility, the song lays bare the inner conflict that often goes unspoken. The melody carries a poignant blend of hope and resignation, making it a moving piece that lingers long after the last note fades.

What truly elevates “What’s A Man To Do” is its ability to connect on an emotional level without resorting to clichés. The lyrics are crafted with a simplicity that speaks volumes, turning everyday struggles into profound moments of introspection. This song doesn’t just tell a story—it invites you into a conversation, a quiet moment where truths are whispered between the lines.

As you listen, it’s as if you’re sitting across from a good friend, sharing stories under the soft glow of a porch light. There’s a sense of camaraderie in its verses, a gentle reminder that you’re not alone in navigating the tricky waters of life. It’s this personal touch that makes the song not just a melody to enjoy but a companion to lean on during those times of inner turmoil.

Video

Lyrics

Before the tears I’ve cried
Have even dried
She’ll be with him
They’ll look in each other’s eyes
And with her lips still warm with lies
She’ll kiss him
And though she knows she’s wrong
She just keeps on
Keepin’ me hangin’ on
Tell me
What’s a man to do
When the one he’s promised to
Finds somebody new
Should I just stand by
Watch the love I’ve lived for die
Lord I wish I knew
Tell me what’s a man to do
Instrumental
Maybe I’ll make a stand
Or just wash my hands
Of her forever
But I’ve never been alone
Except for here at home
When they’re together
And though I know it’s wrong
I let her go on
Keepin’ me hangin’ on
Telll me, what’s a man to do
When the one he’s promised to
Finds somebody new
Should I just stand by
Watch the love I’ve lived for die
Lord I wish I knew
Tell me what’s a man to do
Tell me what’s a man to do

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“KISS YOU ALL OVER” MADE THEM NO. 1 ON POP RADIO. THEN THE WORLD MOVED ON — AND EXILE HAD TO REBUILD ITSELF AS A COUNTRY BAND FROM KENTUCKY. Exile had already been around long before the big hit. The band started in Kentucky in the 1960s, playing local events, cover songs, road dates, and whatever kind of room would let them work. They were not born cleanly into country music. They moved through rock, pop, rhythm and blues, and the kind of long band life where members change, labels come and go, and most people quit before the real break ever arrives. Then 1978 came. “Kiss You All Over” hit No. 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 and stayed there for four weeks. For a moment, Exile looked like a pop success story. The record was sleek, sensual, and far from the Kentucky country sound they would later be known for. But one giant pop hit can become a cage. The follow-up records did not carry the same force. Lead singer Jimmy Stokley left. The band could have become another name filed under late-’70s one-hit wonder nostalgia. Instead, they turned toward country. By the early 1980s, J.P. Pennington, Sonny LeMaire, Les Taylor, Marlon Hargis, and Steve Goetzman reshaped Exile around harmony, songwriting, and a cleaner country-band identity. “High Cost of Leaving” opened the door. Then “Woke Up in Love” and “I Don’t Want to Be a Memory” both went to No. 1. The second life was not small. Exile went on to stack country No. 1s through the 1980s, proving the pop hit had not been the whole story. It had only been the first mask. Some bands get trapped by the song everybody remembers. Exile survived by becoming the band country radio had not expected to need.

“THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS” HAD JUST MADE HIM A GRAMMY WINNER. “NORTH TO ALASKA” WAS STILL MOVING. THEN JOHNNY HORTON LEFT AUSTIN AFTER A SHOW AND NEVER MADE IT BACK TO SHREVEPORT. Johnny Horton was not built like a quiet country singer. He had come through East Texas, California, Alaska, talent contests, radio work, and Louisiana Hayride stages before the big records finally caught him. He sang like a man chasing history with a fishing pole in one hand and a guitar in the other. “When It’s Springtime in Alaska” gave him a No. 1 country hit. Then “The Battle of New Orleans” made him enormous. By 1960, Horton had become the voice of country saga songs. “Sink the Bismarck” hit. “North to Alaska” followed, tied to the John Wayne film and still rising while Horton was working the road. He was only 35, but the songs had already made him sound like he belonged to some older American story — wars, frontiers, ships, frozen trails, men moving toward danger. On the night of November 4, 1960, he played the Skyline Club in Austin, Texas. After the show, Horton left for Shreveport with manager Tillman Franks and guitarist Tommy Tomlinson. Near Milano, Texas, their car collided with a truck on a bridge. Horton died on the way to the hospital. Tomlinson was badly injured and later lost a leg. Franks survived with serious injuries. The stage was behind them. Shreveport was still ahead. Johnny Horton died in the middle — between one club date and the next road home, while one of his biggest records was still out in the world singing about Alaska.

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“KISS YOU ALL OVER” MADE THEM NO. 1 ON POP RADIO. THEN THE WORLD MOVED ON — AND EXILE HAD TO REBUILD ITSELF AS A COUNTRY BAND FROM KENTUCKY. Exile had already been around long before the big hit. The band started in Kentucky in the 1960s, playing local events, cover songs, road dates, and whatever kind of room would let them work. They were not born cleanly into country music. They moved through rock, pop, rhythm and blues, and the kind of long band life where members change, labels come and go, and most people quit before the real break ever arrives. Then 1978 came. “Kiss You All Over” hit No. 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 and stayed there for four weeks. For a moment, Exile looked like a pop success story. The record was sleek, sensual, and far from the Kentucky country sound they would later be known for. But one giant pop hit can become a cage. The follow-up records did not carry the same force. Lead singer Jimmy Stokley left. The band could have become another name filed under late-’70s one-hit wonder nostalgia. Instead, they turned toward country. By the early 1980s, J.P. Pennington, Sonny LeMaire, Les Taylor, Marlon Hargis, and Steve Goetzman reshaped Exile around harmony, songwriting, and a cleaner country-band identity. “High Cost of Leaving” opened the door. Then “Woke Up in Love” and “I Don’t Want to Be a Memory” both went to No. 1. The second life was not small. Exile went on to stack country No. 1s through the 1980s, proving the pop hit had not been the whole story. It had only been the first mask. Some bands get trapped by the song everybody remembers. Exile survived by becoming the band country radio had not expected to need.

“THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS” HAD JUST MADE HIM A GRAMMY WINNER. “NORTH TO ALASKA” WAS STILL MOVING. THEN JOHNNY HORTON LEFT AUSTIN AFTER A SHOW AND NEVER MADE IT BACK TO SHREVEPORT. Johnny Horton was not built like a quiet country singer. He had come through East Texas, California, Alaska, talent contests, radio work, and Louisiana Hayride stages before the big records finally caught him. He sang like a man chasing history with a fishing pole in one hand and a guitar in the other. “When It’s Springtime in Alaska” gave him a No. 1 country hit. Then “The Battle of New Orleans” made him enormous. By 1960, Horton had become the voice of country saga songs. “Sink the Bismarck” hit. “North to Alaska” followed, tied to the John Wayne film and still rising while Horton was working the road. He was only 35, but the songs had already made him sound like he belonged to some older American story — wars, frontiers, ships, frozen trails, men moving toward danger. On the night of November 4, 1960, he played the Skyline Club in Austin, Texas. After the show, Horton left for Shreveport with manager Tillman Franks and guitarist Tommy Tomlinson. Near Milano, Texas, their car collided with a truck on a bridge. Horton died on the way to the hospital. Tomlinson was badly injured and later lost a leg. Franks survived with serious injuries. The stage was behind them. Shreveport was still ahead. Johnny Horton died in the middle — between one club date and the next road home, while one of his biggest records was still out in the world singing about Alaska.

THE YOUNG SHERIFF BECAME THE HILLBILLY HEARTTHROB. THEN, IN 1996, FARON YOUNG LEFT A NOTE SAYING THE BUSINESS HE HELPED BUILD HAD TURNED ITS BACK ON HIM. Faron Young had once looked like country music’s brightest kind of trouble. He came out of Louisiana, landed on the Louisiana Hayride, served in the Army, made movies, and turned into one of the most recognizable young faces in 1950s country. They called him the Hillbilly Heartthrob. “If You Ain’t Lovin’.” “Live Fast, Love Hard, Die Young.” “Hello Walls.” “It’s Four in the Morning.” For more than 30 years, his name kept finding the charts. He was not just a singer either. Faron backed younger writers, helped Willie Nelson by cutting “Hello Walls,” started the trade paper Music City News, and carried himself like a man who believed country music belonged to people who fought for it. Then the industry moved on. By the 1990s, Young’s health was failing. Emphysema made breathing hard. Prostate problems added more pain. Younger acts were rediscovering his music, but that did not erase the feeling that the business itself had no real place left for him. On December 9, 1996, at his Nashville home, Faron Young shot himself. He died the next day at 64. The cruel part was the timing. Country music had already taken his records, his swagger, his paper, his songs, and his help with younger writers. But near the end, Faron Young believed the same world had forgotten him. Four years later, he was inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame. The honor came after the man who needed to hear it was gone.