David Leon
Panamerican Orchid Club
Close Up Records
alto flute & alto saxophone
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My grandfather used to tend orchids in a greenhouse in the far corner of the yard, over by the oven he made with the extra cinderblocks and hurricane shutters. Built from spare wood and mosquito mesh, the structure kept his backyard Babylon cool in Miami’s year-round sun. It wasn’t very tall, but neither was he. Spaced evenly across the rusting water pipes, the plants hung in teakwood baskets wrapped in the wire hangers from my grandmother’s closet. The same ones she’d fashion into those long hooks for when things fell behind the cabinets. She’d say she never had any hobbies, though I’d say her midday naps are a favorite pastime. The pressure cooker whispers in the kitchen. The curtains draw as the big appliances hush their cycles. She is weightless as the armchair performs its automatic recline. Her eyes close, but the newspaper remains taut in her hands; I’m not convinced she ever really falls asleep. My father on the other hand: he will famously knock out with his finger in mid-air over the TV remote, and mean it. Before he found the conure in the yard and taught her the trick with the red and blue bottle caps, it was all about the Clive Cussler books, and the RC helicopters before that. I remember the period where he tied fishing rods, angling thread around carbon fiber to hold the guides in place. And those years with the boat and the moment with the acoustic guitar. Something always came after the next thing.
My father was a wedding photographer when he met my mother on the dance floor. She says she’d left the Panamerican Orchid Society by then—she inspired many of my grandfather’s hobbies it turns out—but I think she may have still been into keeping saltwater aquariums. Live coral, tropical fish and water chemistry: the whole thing. An octopus, once. She and my uncle loved those tanks, though his passions these days, since the hurricane sunk the sailboat and writing that novel fizzled, are mostly culinary. The sun rises to warm the cinderblocks by the greenhouse. The spent coals inside exude a sagacious glow as green guava leaves tenderly wrap themselves around the suckling pig; there is a long day ahead. My grandfather put the pig in, but my uncle will be the one to take it out. The crows at dusk cheer on the fading crackle of the embers. My mother is an avid quilter now. Her placemats keep me company at mealtime and the coasters with the snowballed corners protect all the delicate surfaces. The golden anniversary quilt hangs proudly on the wall behind the armchair for napping. Each night, I sleep under the Carpenter Star and its eight arms all point home.
David Leon
Brooklyn NY, September 2026
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A thousand flowers to Joel and Prim for bringing themselves so fully to our music, and to Jimmy for capturing our sounds with such care. A million flowers to Daniel and Solomon for creating and maintaining so dutifully our beloved community garden, Close Up.
Joel Ross — vibraphone
Daniel Prim — drumset & maracas
Recorded live at Close Up on May 16th, 2025
All compositions by David Leon (Tropical Brutalism ASCAP)
Producer: Solomon Gottfried
Executive Producer: Daniel Gaynor
Recording Engineer: Jimmy Katz
Mix & Master: Eivind Opsvik at Greenwood Underground
Album Artwork: Tim Watson
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