- Brandon Soderberg
- Jager is couch-bound weed for sure, but it's the best of the bunch.
The knotty, nearly dreaded buds of Jager (or "JGR") look sunbaked. Like weed with the contrast turned way down, like a cardboard California Raisins sunshade faded in the front window of a car or an attention-grabbing paperback resting in the front window of a bookstore to lure customers in, bearing the brunt of years of the sun's rays. Along with its lossy green color, Jager's hairs are vein-like and Impulse! Records-cover orange and when you stare deep into the bud, it recalls a shag rug tangle. And so, there is a bricolage of nostalgic feels at play here and the strain itself, heady yet unfussy, will have you recalling a time when weed was more haphazard, when what you got was maybe not what you were told it was, was probably stepped on, but also wouldn't potentially knock you the hell out the way highly calibrated medicinal strains are apt to do. This is couch-bound, screwing-around weed for sure, but the best of the bunch.
When you pull a Jager bud out and sniff, there's a haughty, near-berry smell mixed with a touch of that earthy scent that's somewhere between "sweaty at the beach" and "expensive IPA" — imagine holding a single stale piece of Cap'n Crunch cereal and stuffing it up your nose. We're all told the strain's named after Jägermeister, that German, licorice-flavored liqueur (which it does smell a bit like). And well, OK then. Though, there's also a similar, famous strain named Yeager, which isn't exactly the same as Jager but is close and hey, both have Hindu Kush origins and are heavily weighted toward Indica.
That taste — Saturday morning cereal to me and some fancy schnapps to most other people — gets more complicated when you light up. A tart tertiary taste unfurls and then surrounds your throat, stings once and spreads and pulses. And from there, you're rapidly stoned and pretty much out. Dry mouth is more like dying-dog-in-the-desert-who-also-has-the-flu mouth here. The high's not good for much, but not quite the debilitating nod-out sort, and in this sense it's a bit retro — like weed that made you messy, sloppy, lazy. The high rests in your elbows and the back of your head, pulling you backward a little bit it seems and then the flat high gives way to some paranoia, though it's the grandiose sort where the sound will drop out or get quiet and you'll assume the world outside your window was just bombed or gravity's gone away and we're falling through infinite space. Or maybe that's just me. Basically, everything feels significant, and therefore potentially terrifying.
You'll really feel the weight of all things. Overwhelming emotional baggage stacks high and presses down paired with global dread and then, about two hours in, it disappears and you're left with the ambient anxiety of just being alive.
Nose: One piece of Cap'n Crunch cereal found in the back of your parents' pantry
Existential dread: 3
Freaking out when a crazy person approaches you: 3
Drink pairing: PBR — the opposite of Jägermeister
Music pairing: Yusef Lateef, Psychicemotus