This is a 1990 ultra-realist song from the French folk-punk group Pigalle.
Written and composed by the group’s leader: François Hadji-Lazaro
It has become an anthem of French Alternative chanson.
It paints a vivid picture of the downs and outs in a Parisian bar-tabac. (A type of bar licensed to sell cigarettes along with alcohol. In France, you can only purchase tobacco products from licenced tabac shops or bar-tabacs)
Those bars, unlike the bistros, do not sell cooked food and are used for the majority by locals from the working classes.
It describes the various characters you may find in this particularly gritty bar: hookers, local alcoholics, various downs and outs, including the recently broken-hearted, drug users, and violent thugs, all coming to the bar to drink and escape their troubles.
Although speaking about very harsh realities, the song is written in a poetic way, a bit like an ode to the down-and-out as Toulouse Lautrec would have depicted in his paintings at the end of the previous century.
The music is soft and melancholic, matching the ambience of melancholy and escape sought after by those who frequent the bar. A refuge from the harsh reality described in the lyrics or in the life of the characters.
The choice of instruments, such as the accordion and waltz-like rhythm, reminds the listeners of the Parisian Musette (working-class dance-halls)
NB: François Hadji-Lazaro here describes a particularly seedy bar in a shady area of Paris. But not all bar-tabacs are seedy joints.
Some expressions in context:
“Le patron a un flingue pour l’ingénu qu’en voudrait à la tirelire” (The landlord has a shooter for the smart-ass who would be after the piggy-bank)
Flingue is a French slang word for gun.
“Dans les chiottes les mots gravés sur les murs” (In the bogs, the words engraved on the wall)
Chiottes is a French slang word for toilets.
“Parlent de sexes géants d’amours et d’ordures ensemble” (Talk about giant sexes, love and scum, together)
Ordure in French means trash. But is commonly used informally to describe a nasty male.
“On éteint l’impact encore brûlant de lèvres entrouvertes humides et douces” (We extinguish the remaining burning impact of half-open lips, moist and soft)
This would be a literal translation. But in French, the way the author has written that phrase is very colourful, yet quite poetic. Something like with (Snuffing out the searing sting of soft, moist and slightly open lips)
“Ici la dope c’est à la poignée” (Here, dope comes by the fistful)
À la poignee is a French expression to describe something plentiful and cheap. Ten a penny would be a good equivalent in English
“il y a des vieux gars tatoués partout” (There are old blokes with tattoos everywhere) Given the context, they are likely to be veterans or career criminals. Hence the translation to old-timers
Dans la salle du bar-tabac
de la Rue de Martyrs
Y a des filles de nuit
Qu’attendent le jour
en vendant du plaisir
Y a des ivrognes qui s’épanchent au bar
Qui glissent lentement le long du comptoir
Par terre
Dans la salle du bar-tabac
de la Rue de Martyrs
Le patron a un flingue
Pour l’ingénu
qu’en voudrait à la tirelire
Dans les chiottes, les mots gravés sur les murs
Parlent de sexes géants, d’amour et d’ordures
Ensemble
Ici, chacun doucement oublie l’ombre
D’une vie passée d’une femme de décombres
Dans ce cliché funèbre,
on cherche l’oubli
D’un parfum, d’une voix
On éteint l’impact encore brûlant
De lèvres entrouvertes, humides et douces
Dans la salle du bar-tabac de la Rue des Martyrs
Certains soirs, tout à coup
Dans un coin, on s’arrête de rire
Et quand brusquement, les lames sortent
Tout le monde dégage,
se jette sur la porte
en verre
Dans la salle du bar-tabac de la Rue des Martyrs
Y a des seringues
vidées goulûment
Dans des bras sans avenir
Ici, la dope, c’est à la poignée
Les petites cuillères
servent que rarement
Pour le café
Ici, chacun doucement oublie l’ombre
D’une vie passée d’une femme de décombres
Dans ce cliché funèbre,
on cherche l’oubli
D’un parfum, d’une voix
On éteint l’impact encore brûlant
De lèvres entrouvertes, humides et douces
Dans la salle du bar-tabac de la Rue des Martyrs
Y a des vieux gars tatoués partout
Qui racontent leurs souvenirs
Y a des voyageurs tristes, pardessus et valises
Y a des bookmakers qui
ramassent les mises
La nuit
Dans la salle du bar-tabac de la Rue des Martyrs
On peut tout acheter, tout vendre
Le meilleur et le pire
Une vieille clocharde,
la gueule défoncée
Rentre avec sa poussette et se met à gueuler
“À boire”
Dans la salle du bar-tabac de la Rue des Martyrs
Dans la salle du bar-tabac de la Rue des Martyrs
At the Bar Tabac
of the rue des Martyrs,
There are the girls of the night
waiting for the dawn from the day
while selling a good time
There are drunks sprawling into the bar
and slowly sliding down the counter
to the floor
At the Bar Tabac
of the rue des Martyrs,
The landlord has a shooter
for the smart-ass
Who would be after the piggy bank
In the bogs, the words engraved
on the walls
talk about giant sexes, love and scum …
… together.
Here, everyone slowly forgets
the shadow
of a past life from a walking wreck of a woman
In this morbid snapshot
looking for oblivion
a scent, a voice.
Snuffing out the searing sting
of soft, moist and slightly open lips
At the bar Tabac
Of the rue des Martyrs.
Some evenings, all of a sudden
in the corner, everyone stops laughing
And when suddenly the blades come out,
everyone fucks off,
Throwing themselves at the glass door.
At the Bar Tabac
of the rue des Martyrs,
There are syringes
voraciously emptying
into some arms with no future.
Here, the dope is ten a penny
The small spoons
are so rarely used
for coffee.
Here, everyone slowly forgets
the shadow
of a past life, the walking wreck of a woman
in this morbid snapshot
one looks for oblivion
a scent, a voice
Snuffing out the searing sting
of soft, moist and part-open lips
At the Bar Tabac
of the rue des Martyrs
There are inked-up old-timers
telling their memoirs
There are weary travellers
beyond their suitcases
There are bookmakers
collecting the bets
at night
At the Bar Tabac
Of the rue des Martyrs.
You can buy anything, sell everything,
The best and the worst.
An old tramp lady,
with a battered mush
enters with her pram
and starts to bellow,
A bevy!
At the Bar Tabac
of the rue des Martyrs,
At the Bar Tabac
Of the rue des Martyrs.
Between the French lyrics 
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