By Isa Jones
By Mary Willson
By Brian Turk
By Drew AIles
By Taylor Boylston
By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
"My collection has grown in geometric proportions," says Gillies, with a proud wave of his hand. "I have about 1,000 vinyl records, many of which are out of print or Jamaican-pressed. I have about 2,000 CDs and thousands of cassettes." Nodding toward an immense container that easily might be mistaken for a refrigerator, he reports, "I've lost count of how many there are, but at the heart of that material lies entire drawers of nothing but Wailers material, extremely rare, unreleased Marley songs, rehearsal sessions, concerts and such. I visited Roger Steffens (founding editor of reggae's Beat magazine) in California, who has probably the largest Wailers collection in the world, and he let me go into the heart of his collection and shamelessly loot it to record, in one 24-hour period on a high-speed tape deck, ninety full cassettes of material."
Fortunately, Gillies doesn't simply hoard this swag; instead, he uses Reggae Bloodlines, founded in 1978, to entertain and educate listeners about his favorite genre. According to Catherine Gollery, KGNU's music director, Gillies's acumen is an important reason the program is so popular. "He brings something special to the show," she attests. "Roger has that 'collector's disease,' and people definitely tune in to hear him."
In short, Gillies, who's been a Bloodlines regular for eight years, is the Cliff Clavin of reggae--if Clavin were fascinating rather than dull, that is. A former antiwar activist whose father was an FBI agent, he's been a letter carrier with the Postal Service in Boulder for the past nineteen years. But his musical obsession predates his time in uniform. He says he was first bitten by the reggae bug in 1973, when he caught Bob Marley's version of "I Shot the Sheriff" (a tune popularized in this country by Eric Clapton) on a Denver radio station. "I heard this wild, electric, unchained voice, and the energy from that song was real and genuine," he explains, his face marked by the sort of glazed, dreamy look that's usually associated with cult members. "I thought, 'Who is this guy? I have to find out about this.'"
From that moment on, Gillies bought all the reggae he could. After purchasing virtually every recording available domestically, he graduated to mail-order. Now he receives unsolicited music and requests for tapes from as far away as Japan. As a result, his house shelters a great many oddities. Among his prize possessions is a videotape of a Marley concert in Zimbabwe that includes footage of Prince Charles lowering the British flag, thereby symbolically freeing the colony, as well as recordings by reggae combos from Germany, Canada, the Grand Canyon's Supai Indian tribe and New Zealand's Maori warriors. "They sing in the Maori language," he points out. "It's a beautiful, militant album of which I don't understand a word. In fact, I haven't found anyone who knows the Maori language--but I'd like to get it translated."
More treasures have come Gillies's way in Jamaica, where he's been a regular visitor since 1987. "I didn't go to Jamaica for a long time, because I didn't want to be a tourist," he admits. But when a friend invited him to stay with a Jamaican family in the countryside, Gillies jumped at the chance. He had a wonderful time--but during a return trip the following year, he wound up dealing with more than he bargained for. "I went through Hurricane Gilbert down there with the family," he recalls. "We started with three houses and ended up with two-thirds of one house. The next day brought torrential rains that we spent saving the family's chicken business. We saved 98 out of 100 chickens the family owned. All the other chickens in the area, which were really the basis of the local economy, were killed--if not by the hurricane's wind, then by exposure to the rains the next few days. Most Jamaicans in the country live out of their yards, relying on fruit from the trees, vegetables from the yard, and so forth, because you can't get good, nutritional food any other way. And it wiped most families out."
To help a number of those most affected, Gillies goes on, "I set up a dancehall bar in the countryside, seven miles inland from Negril in a place called Ketto. I basically never made back my investment money and didn't expect to. It was my way of feeding two families' worth of people. We served fried chicken and beer in the front, and in the back there was an enormous sound system where people danced all night long to the latest 45s." The Ketto Hot Spot folded two years later, after Gillies's landlord doubled his rent and opened up a competing business; all that's left of it is a hand-painted sign that hangs in his Jamestown living room. "But," he asserts, "by that point the crops had grown back, the chickens were healthy and the economy picked up again. And my partner in the bar was able to get a job as a driver, so everything turned out okay."