Ligabue’s “Certe Notti” is a love letter to those unforgettable nights when the world feels wide-open and anything can happen. The engine is warm, the radio plays Neil Young, and the road itself decides where you’re headed. In these hours the usual rules fade: street names stop mattering, bars are shut, yet friends gather at the first roadside diner to celebrate simply being alive. You might carry a few literal or emotional cuts, but someone in the crew will patch you up before the next laugh. It is part rock-and-roll road movie, part after-party confessional, bursting with mosquitoes, fog, kisses, and the reckless promise that you won’t change.
These “certain nights” turn ordinary people into kings of places that do not exist by daylight. They blur loneliness and togetherness, parent-like comfort and playful sin, until you realise that settling for “so-so” joy is still better than sleeping through life. The song invites you to keep that vice of late-night freedom alive, to stay awake to your own desires, and to believe that—sooner or later—everyone will meet again “da Mario” for one more round. It is a tribute to spontaneity, camaraderie, and the stubborn thrill of chasing the night just because it feels right.