Miami’s like a ghost town, populated by a handful of zombified veterans, delaying re-entry as long as possible. Tales of old conferences have been told; reasons to return discussed. And good-byes, some with an air of possible finality, were exchanged.
But so were reasons to return, like the boat party, Sunday School and John Digweed’s throw-down at the Vagabond. At least in Digweed’s case, that has as much to do with the club as it does the DJ.
