“Nineteen sixty-six, that’s when I went and met Eddie Pazant, who was playing lead alto sax. He understood the piece immediately! Hamp was kind of befuddled, knew he shouldn’t play on it. He did one arrangement, then live at Newport. By this time, funk was getting very big, but the few players you could find to do some funk couldn’t read; then the jazzmen who could read were much too polite in their phrasing. Pazant was the first one who understood immediately how it should be phrased.”

Both Edwards had mutual respect for each other’s talents, and, after Pazant later informed Bland of the worldwide buzz “Greasy Greens” generated when performed, he suggested the composer check out a side thing he had going in Harlem with his brother Alvin, a trumpeter. “So we got the intelligent funk thing going. First things we recorded were ‘Skunk Juice’ and ‘Toe Jam.’ ” Heady names they were not. “Well, over eight months five companies turned us down after saying, ‘It’s a sure thing!’ ” A deal was finally struck in ’69, however, when Bland hooked up with Gerard W. Purcell, a renowned managerial figure of performers such as Al Hirt and Eddy Arnold. Purcell was looking to start his own R&B label—GWP—and not only took the Pazant offering but hired Bland to be the label’s primary arranger.
Bland, in turn, would use the Pazants as a de facto house band for many of the singers, including Little Rose Little and Betty Barney. He would also arrange albums for a relatively unknown Maya Angelou—an experience he describes as “mirthless”—and Diz, putting tasty grease into Gillespie’s Soul and Salvation. The Pazants themselves continued to record as well under their name and the Chili Peppers, whose lone single “Chicken Scratch” could only stir up Memphis.

Around the same time, Bland found himself curating the Museum of Modern Art’s live music series, “Jazz in the Garden.” Bland recalls, “The museum found out there was this thing called rock, and Downbeat, who previously did it, said, ‘No thanks.’ So I could do jazz but had to do some rock shows too. Country Joe, Richie Havens, Muddy Waters, Elvin Jones, Clark Terry, and the Pazant Brothers—why not? They were my group, so I had them
a number of times.” Fortunately, one of those times was recorded, and it showcases the Pazants, armed with Bland’s signature arrangements, simply at their nastiest. Too many complaining neighbors in ’71, however, forced MOMA to send the funk back up to Harlem.

Moreover, GWP, after distributors consistently failed to pay up, folded (trying to put out astrological records didn’t help either). Ed, now a more visible figure in the biz, continued to hustle until ’74 when Vanguard Records, renowned for their classical and folk catalogues and a label for whom he’d often freelanced, offered him a full-time A&R position. It would be the first and last nine-to-five job he’d ever have. “Vanguard was owned by two brothers (I mean biological brothers), Seymour and Maynard: one was interested only in Baroque music and the other was interested in Beethoven. They made their bread through folks like Joan Baez and Country Joe. But they weren’t aware of life. They were Marxists of a kind, so the last thing they could understand was Black music. Jazz they could take, a bit.

86 waxpoetics

But when it came down to gospel and its derivatives, they were completely lost. They conceded it [made] money, but they couldn’t deal with that world…and believe me, they couldn’t!” Hence, the Solomons left Bland alone to find the requisite talent and he did: James Moody, Elvin Jones, Clark Terry, Camille Yarbrough, Big Mama Thorton, and his favorites, the Pazants. All the albums had that signature Bland stamp of Stravinsky, jazz, and funk. And with the Pazants, he was finally able to do a

full-length: 1975’s Loose and Juicy, an album replete with Pazant/Bland staples updated for synth-friendlier times. But the job eventually became a drag. “Vanguard had no promotion; they pushed nothing. I’d get calls from Elvin Jones in Denver: ‘I’m in a record store here and I can’ find my record!’ [laughs] You can only bear that so much. You’re playing with someone’s career; it gets to the point [that] you don’t want to sign anybody. So by ’78, I went back to concert music, which I thought was/is my life’s calling.”

It was probably just as well, as disco conquered, punk spawned, and rap sprung forth. Ed decided it was time for a bigger move. He took his family to Los Angeles, where he wrote for TV, film, and composed chamber music (eventually garnering a Grammy-nomination in ’98). His classical works have been performed by orchestras worldwide. His funkier past would’ve been forgotten, of course, if not for folks like Cypress Hill (Pazants’ “A Gritty Nitty”) and Fat Boy Slim (Yarbrough’s “Take Yo’ Praise”) reintroducing Bland’s touch to another generation. Naturally, Ed, who didn’t know anything had been sampled until 2000, was shocked. He contacted Eddie Pazant (and a lawyer). These days, the composer resides in Virginia where “it’s boring as hell,” but he’s inspired by recent reissues, video games, and an idea he started to explore fifty years ago, loops. “And I’m working on a bunch of percussion pieces.” You heard correct: this eighty-year-young godfather of hip-hop is busy making beats.
 

Note:
All interstitial quotes taken from The Cry of Jazz.

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