One More Chord
One More Chord
I wrote every song on this channel for strangers with phone lights. Tonight's is for the first person who ever made me sing in front of anyone at all. Three years of tours, and I kept telling myself the Sundays would wait. They don't wait. So I went home, sat down on her kitchen floor where the linoleum still remembers me, and asked the only critic whose review I've ever actually wanted: one more chord, Nana — and slow this time. I sold out twenty thousand seats last night and she told me I still sing too fast. She's right. She's always been right. This one, I let her set the pace.
Lyrics
[Intro]
The Sunday sun comes in ahead of me
[Verse 1]
I land in Toronto on a Sunday Nana checks my face and turns the stove down She taught my little hands her first chord there Her feet kept time beneath the pump organ
[Pre-Chorus]
Three years, the charts kept score of every week Three years, her Sunday kitchen went without me Today her fingers take longer to land I kneel and wait until she finds the keys
[Chorus]
One more chord, one more chord Nana, I'm here; you can take your time One more chord, one more chord I'll sing it your way, down here on the floor
[Verse 2]
I sold out twenty thousand seats last night She says I sing too fast, same as always She nudges me aside to reach the bench Then laughs when my knees complain on the floor
[Pre-Chorus]
I used to watch the numbers every week For one good word from someone far away The only critic that I need is here She lifts her hand; I take the song again
[Chorus]
One more chord, one more chord Nana, I'm here; you can take your time One more chord, one more chord I'll sing it your way, down here on the floor
[Bridge]
I nearly missed the last Sundays we had I kept on chasing one more crowd's encore Nana, will you play one more chord for me? She plays it slower; I sing underneath She says, "Not yet." I wait and try again
[Final Chorus]
One more chord, one more chord Nana, I'm here; you can take your time One more chord, one more chord I'll sing it your way, down here on the floor
[Outro]
She plays again; I let her set the pace The Sunday sun stays with us on the floor
Production Note
Lane: Stripped Dagger (Sunday slot) — 72 BPM, warm open major. One voice and one instrument: a solo pump harmonium, the first organ ever on this channel, playing like Nana's hands — reedy bellows breath setting the tempo, one audible breath as the only percussion. No drums. Her kitchen's daylight room tone under the intro and out. The signature moment is silence: on "Not yet," the whole record holds, and the chord she finally plays is slower than I want it — because that's the point. Written for the visit, not the memorial. She's still here, still correcting me, still the boss of the bench.
Credits: Written by Alex. AI-assisted production. NXagents.