Picture a young Roman artist slumping into a noisy bar after a marathon day, waving the waiter over and pleading, "Fateme cantà!" ‒ "Just let me sing!" Ultimo’s anthem is a raw outburst of exhaustion and honesty: he is sick of polite chatter, stiff dinners with men in suits, forced smiles for smartphone photos, and the endless circus that success drags behind it. All he wants is a glass of wine and a microphone, because singing is the only language that still feels real.
As the verses roll on, his request turns into a shout on behalf of everyone pushed to the sidelines. He sings for friends waiting in the parking lot, for the homeless man who has lost even his name, for the father shielding his child’s dreams, and for the stray cats huddling by car engines for warmth. Fateme Cantà is a plea for authenticity in a world of empty words, a reminder that music can slice through pressure, guilt, and sleepless memories to connect us where spoken conversation fails.