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“Girls can wear jeans / And cut their hair short / Wear shirts and boots / Because it’s OK to be a boy / But for a boy to look like a girl is degrading / Because you think that being a girl is degrading / But secretly, you’d love to know what it’s like / Wouldn’t you? / What it feels like for a girl.”
— “Cement Garden Interlude” (Sample of Charlotte Gainsberg’s speech from the film Cement Garden).
3AM, Saturday Morning: You’re staring into the overpriced coffee you bought from the only place that was open after trudging out of the club and into the streets. It’s raining, and you’re uncomfortably damp, but not quite wet enough to call it a night and head home just yet. Something’s about to happen, you can feel it in your bones. You don’t know quite what, but if you leave right now you’ll miss it, so you sit there, staring into your coffee as your friends beg you to head back to the hall / flat / squalid basement you call a home, questioning if you belong there, if you belong anywhere.
4AM: The semi deserted diner churns, people moving in and out, faster than you can process. Is it the pills you took in the bathroom while someone threw up in the stall next to you? Your friends have gone and you’re alone now. You haven’t dried off, you’ve been sweating too much. It must be those pills. Was three too many? You said you could handle it but you’re feeling the kebab you had earlier work its way up your oesophagus forcing you to dash to the dilapidated toilet at the back of the diner.
5AM: You drag yourself out of the diner and back into the street. The rain is still coming down and you don’t have your coat. You stare at your dead phone, questioning if you still had the enough money in your account to catch a taxi home. You aren’t even sure if a taxi would let you in, you caught a reflection of yourself and you look like shit. There’s flecks of vomit on your shirt and you can’t remember if its yours or not. Someone’s dropped a 20 and you grab it (you notice one of your fingers is swelling), thinking it may be your ticket outta here.
6AM: After catching a night bus you’re closer to home, to safety, respite. You still can’t check your phone, so you don’t know if your friends give a shit you made it back or not. Do you give a shit? Something was meant to happen tonight and it never did. Was it because you left? Or was it because you sat for so long in that shitty diner waiting for something to come to you when you were meant to go out and find it yourself.
This is the harrowing journey of listening to Entrañas. There’s a sense of anticipation, of unhealthy longing, this sick desire throughout that is never realised. There’s a constant state of tension, of being unnervingly on edge, and there is no respite until the closing tracks when a Spanish man croons. Its shortness betrays its depth, clocking in at only 25 minutes. It’s a breathless ride, punctured with distressing drums, eerily edited moans, groans, wails, and screams. It makes for phenomenal listening, putting you on the edge of your seat and refusing to let up, but shit, I’m glad it’s over.