Pharell is like the random ghost of Christmas future of Miami's music scene. Every once in a while, he'll pop up at a club -- presumably between bouts of buying designer toys and street art -- then catch a random local act, murmur his seal of approval, and then disappear in a cloud of smoke. Just a few days later, whoever was lucky enough to be at the receiving end of that utterance wakes up in Egyptian sheets and then goes about crossing off "swim in private money vault" off his or her to-do list.
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