Learn French With Hoshi with these 12 Song Recommendations (Full Translations Included!)

Pull up a barstool and breathe in the haze: Pleurs De Fumoir drops us straight into a late-night bar where heartbreak clings to our clothes like the smell of cigarette smoke. Hoshi and Benjamin Biolay trade verses over a slow, jazzy groove, comparing battered lungs to a weary heart while rumors swirl like curling smoke. Instead of facing their pain head-on, they drown it in bourbon, buy another round, and spark up conversations that are as heavy as the air around them.

Yet beneath the alcohol-soaked melancholy lies a fragile spark of camaraderie. The pair vows to stop fighting, swap stories, and even "buy the bar" as a grand gesture of defiance against loneliness. Ultimately, they know they will end up outside, tears mixing with nicotine-stained breath, but there is a bittersweet comfort in sharing that moment together. The song is a smoky snapshot of how we sometimes cope: laughing, crying, and clinging to each other in the dim glow of a pub when the night feels too long to face alone.

Imagine a love so intense that it feels bigger than life itself. In Et Même Après Je T’aimerai, Hoshi paints exactly that picture, declaring that the world loses its color whenever his lover is away. Every verse raises the stakes: he is ready to trade his body, his voice, his gold and even his own future just to keep this bond alive. The singer questions how to “dress the sky in the color of their veins,” hinting at a desire to rewrite the universe so it mirrors their shared heartbeat. His devotion has no logic; it is reckless, fearless and unapologetically passionate.

Behind the dramatic promises lies a simple message: true love endures every doubt, every wound, and even time itself. Hoshi wonders whether his partner can understand such overwhelming affection, yet he vows to love “even after” regardless of the answer. The song becomes an anthem for anyone who has ever fallen so hard that reason disappears, leaving only the stubborn certainty that they will keep loving long after today, tomorrow and every tomorrow after that.

Feeling trapped and craving freedom? “Je Partirai” captures that electrifying moment when you decide to break away from a hostile world and chase your own starlight. Over pulsing beats, Hoshi sings about shutting the blinds, diving deep inside herself, and realizing that the hate surrounding her is suffocating. People point cameras at her collapse, turn her pain into a spectacle, and treat her like bait. Her answer: leave before the party’s over, before the stars lose their shine, and blaze across the sky like a comet.

Even in the eye of the storm, the singer’s determination is fierce. She imagines stepping off a fraying tightrope, sprinting through the tempest, and refusing to be stopped. The repeated “Je partirai” (I will leave) is not defeat; it is a declaration of self-rescue and rebirth. By the end, you feel the rush of escaping darkness and writing your own epic—one brilliant streak of light at a time.

Knocked out in sixty minutes – that is exactly how Hoshi’s narrator feels the moment their lover walks away. In “Tu Vas Me Quitter Encore Longtemps ?,” the South-Korean singer turns heartbreak into a cinematic drama: the studio lights shut off, dreams of future children fade, and every object that still “speaks” of the ex is ripped from the room. Over pulsing beats, the voice swings between fragile pleas (“Qui me relève quand c’est toi qui m’achève”) and biting sarcasm (“T’as sali notre amour pour une putain de sorcière”), painting a vivid picture of someone stuck between wanting to erase the past and desperately hoping to rewrite it.

The chorus’s question – “Are you going to leave me for much longer?” – keeps looping like a stubborn record, underscoring the song’s central tension: healing looks impossible when every heartbeat still syncs to the other person. Hoshi captures the messy cocktail of anger, nostalgia, and undying attachment that follows a sudden breakup, reminding listeners that love’s knockout punch can leave you dizzy, but also fiercely alive in the ring.

From a premature birth to the spotlight of sold-out concerts, “Mauvais Rêve” feels like an emotional time-lapse of Hoshi’s life. Each verse is a birthday candle marking another year, yet every wish seems to be followed by a nightmare. Bullying at school, heartbreak, failed exams, anxiety, illness, and the loss of loved ones all make Mathilde (Hoshi’s real name) wonder, “Did I just have a bad dream?” The repeated line « non, j'ai dû faire un mauvais rêve » becomes her way of pinching herself, hoping the pain will fade as quickly as dreams do.

Yet beneath the litany of setbacks shines an unbreakable love for music. Whenever reality hits hardest, she pulls herself back up with a song: playing guitar in the street at 19, singing her breakout hit “Ta Marinière” at 21, and defiantly kissing her partner on live TV at 23 to demand “love in my country.” The track is both a confessional diary and a victory lap, showing that even if life feels like one long bad dream, Hoshi is wide awake and still chasing, protecting, and living her dream.

“J’te Pardonne” plunges us into the dizzying swirl that follows a brutal breakup. The singer feels poisoned by jealousy, haunted by sleepless nights, and trapped in a room that now feels like a coffin. Vivid metaphors—poison in the veins, heart in quarantine, devouring tinnitus—paint the agony of betrayal. Yet amid the wreckage, one mantra keeps echoing: “J’te pardonne” (“I forgive you”). Forgiveness here is not passive; it is a fierce survival instinct. By repeating it like a spell, the narrator tries to neutralize bitterness, claim back her strength, and believe that love can be rebuilt.

The chorus becomes both a confession and a battle cry. Each “Je te pardonne” is followed by raw admissions: feeling foolish, wanting to forget, almost giving up. But the final verses shift from despair to determination—she imagines reconstructing the relationship, healing together, and fighting until the very end. The song captures the messy contradiction of heartbreak: how someone can shatter you yet still be the only one who can console you. It is a gripping portrait of vulnerability turning into resilience, wrapped in Hoshi’s passionate vocals and cathartic melody.

Hoshi’s “Puis T’as Dansé Avec Moi” feels like a cinematic moment frozen in a pop anthem. The narrator starts in a color-drained world: no smiles, no plans, no future. Then, out of nowhere, a stranger pulls her onto the dance floor and everything flips. That single slow dance becomes a lifeline: bodies sway, hands intertwine, and the singer suddenly sees nothing but the newcomer’s smile. The lyrics replay that instant over and over, the way you might rewind your favorite movie scene just to feel the butterflies again.

Beneath the catchy chorus is a tale about the healing power of connection. One unexpected song, one shared rhythm, and the gloom is replaced by dizzy hope. The memory is so vivid that even waking up alone cannot shake it; the warmth lingers like an echo in her fingertips. It’s a reminder that sometimes all it takes is one dance to pull us “vers le haut” (upward) and restore our faith in tomorrow.

Picture this: a dimly-lit bar, cigar smoke curling toward the ceiling, corks popping like tiny explosions of regret. Our narrator—the “femme à la mer,” a woman overboard—is sinking drink by drink while she waits for a lover who may never show up. Every gulp of alcohol is both a lifeline and an anchor: “Plus je bois… plus je me noie.” The lyrics paint vivid snapshots of heartbreak, self-mockery, and that dizzy tango we dance with our own demons when the night feels endless.

Yet beneath the haze of bourbon-tinted sorrow, the song flickers with a stubborn spark of hope. Hoshi reminds us that loneliness can feel absolute, but two isolated hearts might still collide and rescue each other from the deep. Until that moment, the bar becomes a stage where despair and desire waltz together—proof that even when we look composed on the surface, we’re often battling rough seas inside.

“Comment Je Vais Faire” swirls through heartbreak, self-doubt, and quiet resilience. Hoshi sings about losing friends, time, and finally the person who used to control her personal weather. She pictures herself at her own funeral, not asking for flowers but for “better days,” while joking that it is easier to laugh at pain than to explain it. The lyrics paint a mind caught between icy loneliness and the stubborn promise to get up, leave the bed, and say goodbye to jolie mélancolie.

Yet the song is more than sadness. Through vivid images – a glass heart, snowball memories, eyes tattooed by sleepless nights – Hoshi admits she does not know “how she’s going to do it,” but still makes a fearless vow to keep moving. By the end, apologies replace bitterness and determination outshines despair, turning the track into an anthem for anyone patching up their wounds while learning to smile at the same time.

“Amour Censure” is a bold, emotional anthem about refusing to let society police who we love. Through confessions to mom and dad, Hoshi paints the picture of a young person who has been told to hide their feelings, “put them in the closet,” and conform to “good manners.” The lyrics shift between vulnerability and defiance: moments of exhaustion (“I just wanted to sleep a little longer”) sit next to promises of resilience (“Your blows have given me style”). The repeating question “Will we ever be done with hate and insults?” turns the track into a plea for acceptance, especially for LGBTQ+ couples who are often told their love is “impure.”

Yet the chorus keeps returning to one unshakable truth: “Il n’y a pas d’amour censure, il n’y a que de l’amour sincère” (“There is no censored love, only sincere love”). Even the hateful voice that appears near the end—“Children are for a man and a woman… not for homosexuals”—is overshadowed by that mantra. In the end, the song celebrates authenticity, courage, and the belief that love, when honest, needs no permission.

Imagine standing on a sun-soaked pier while a striped-shirted crush sends your heart spinning like a compass needle. Ta Marinière wraps flirtation and longing in salty sea air, following a narrator who has been "hacked" by love and now dreams of midnight parties on a rocking boat. With every puff of the other’s cigarette and every playful command to "take off your stockings or your top," the song paints a picture of instant attraction that feels as risky as it is irresistible.

Hoshi turns romance into a nautical adventure: waves become emotions, a sailor’s top becomes a lost "hyphen" that should link two souls, and the ocean threatens shipwreck at any moment. The lyrics bounce between bold desire ("I want your body, my treasure") and self-aware humor ("even if it’s a disaster, it’s funny"). By mixing vivid maritime imagery with April Fool-style wordplay about "poisons d’avril," the song captures that exhilarating stage when love feels like setting sail without a map. You might sink, you might swim, but you will definitely dance along the way.

Manège À Trois (which literally describes a three-person merry-go-round) throws us straight into a whirl of jealousy and heartbreak. The South Korean artist Hoshi sings from the perspective of someone who feels they are drowning after discovering their partner’s affair. She imagines preparing her own coffin and placing it inside her lover’s heart—the very place she once retreated to after making mistakes. This exaggeration underlines just how completely the betrayal has shattered her sense of self.

The chorus makes the pain crystal-clear: while she is out working, a third person shares her bed, and her partner refuses to admit it. She demands to know what this intruder has that she doesn’t, yet suspects her partner cannot answer. Worst of all, she pictures having to tell their children that “dad left,” reducing a complicated heartbreak to a simple, bitter line. With vivid imagery, sarcasm, and raw emotion, Hoshi turns a familiar story of infidelity into a dramatic, almost theatrical confession that listeners can both feel and visualize.