The Weirdest CCM Album You May Have Never Heard Of?
One sleepy Saturday in 1989, no doubt after yet another viewing of Batman at the mall multiplex, I wandered into Family Bookstore to peruse the cassettes on the New Release wall. My young eyes were drawn to a sepia-colored cover featuring a strange, imposing figure in the wilderness, wearing shades and a cape.
The band was The Swirling Eddies. The album: Outdoor Elvis.
Full disclosure: I already owned their debut album, Let’s Spin. It’s a solid introduction to what now feels like a proto-’90s alt-pop sound, something that wouldn’t feel out of place among The La’s, The Lemonheads, Stone Roses, or even Soul Asylum. In fact, lead singer Camarillo Eddy (not his real name) shares vocal similarities with Dave Pirner (Soul Asylum) or Collective Soul’s Ed Roland — artists who would break out a few years later. And let’s be honest, there’s also a noticeable Steve Taylor influence on Let’s Spin.
And then there are the unmistakable echoes of the Beach Boys and The Beatles — layered harmonies, melodic hooks, and a certain nostalgic shimmer — whether intentional or not.
But Outdoor Elvis? That was something else entirely.
Maybe it started with the track listing. Take the enigmatic title song — which juxtaposes society’s obsession with figures like Elvis and Bigfoot against the pursuit of faith. At least, that’s my overly simplistic interpretation — I’m still not sure what some of these songs mean. And then there were titles like “Attack of the Pulpit Masters,” “Arthur Fhardy’s Yodeling Party,” and maybe my personal favorite: “Hide the Beer, the Pastor’s Here.”
There was zero chance I was leaving without that tape.
And it did not disappoint.
The song “Outdoor Elvis” is a soft, calming intro that evokes the whimsical instrumental opening to Pee-Wee’s Playhouse. But don’t be lulled into a false sense of easy listening. “Driving in England” crashes through the window like a classic Mellencamp jam. Speed it up, and you could almost sing “R-O-C-K in the U.S.A.” The song is an indictment of one-size-fits-all Christianity, criticizing those who expect conformity in appearance and behavior.
But it wasn’t all rebellion and satire. Like much of their work, The Swirling Eddies often slipped in genuine, heartfelt sincerity. Even sardonic gems like “Driving” still manage to hit you right in the solar plexus of sincerity:
Roadblock on the road to glory
Gridlock on the golden highway
I’ll stop at nothing to get to You
Now that I’ve accused them of unironic sincerity, maybe it’s time for the big reveal: The Swirling Eddies weren’t real. Well — they were real in the sense that actual musicians played the songs. Obviously this was not the first example of an AI band. But the reality is, there was no Camarillo Eddy. There was no Berger Roy Al slapping the bass, no Gene Pool or Spot on guitar, and certainly no Arthur Fhardy tickling the ivories.
The Swirling Eddies were the artistic alter-egos of 1970s Christian rock pioneers Daniel Amos. For those of you under 45, that was band – not a person – like Franz Ferdinand or Uriah Heep (I’ll explain who they were later.) Camarillo Eddy was in fact Daneil Amos founder and frontman, Terry Scott Taylor. The rest of the lineup rotated, still pulling its talent from Daniel Amos, The Choir, and the bands behind solo artists like Randy Stonehill. Over the course of their three albums, The Swirling Eddies functioned as an intentional revolving door — part supergroup, part satire, part sacred oddity.
The band’s mythos even extended to surprise appearances from “guest Eddies,” including none other thathan Christian music legend Eddie DeGarmo of the iconic DeGarmo & Key.
Sadly, Tim Chandler (a.k.a. Berger Roy Al), bassist for both Daniel Amos and The Swirling Eddies, as well as The Choir, passed away in 2018.
In the end, The Swirling Eddies weren’t trying to be famous — they were trying to be free. Free to poke fun at the industry, free to challenge the church, and free to make the kind of music that made them laugh, think, and occasionally tear up. In today’s world of algorithm-driven praise playlists, their legacy may seem like an oddity, but perhaps it’s exactly the kind of holy mischief we could use more of.
And maybe at the same time, in their own, Eddie way, send a wink and a nod to that revolutionary hip-shaker from Tupelo, wherever he may be.
