Sacrébleu!

Recently I seem to have been listening to a lot of foreign music. All tracks have been found through decidedly British avenues, such as TV programmes like Skins, but they originate from foreign lands. I think it's the fact that I don't have a bloody clue what's being said. Without a form of lyrical meaning to latch on to, the words just become yet another instrument and layer of sound that you can interpret as you see fit. Or something.
Amy Stocking quipped that Mapaputsi's Kleva was "ghetto bhangra", a combination that is sure to intrigue, whilst Royan by the wonderfully titled Francois and the Atlas Mountains is either a fragile ode to love or the hurt it can cause; again, I'm not sure it really matters which one it is.
I don't intend to Google either of them for their literal meaning - I'd rather be lost in translation.