June found me in diverse and amazing spots—perching on the roof of a fine building in the eighteenth district, Montmartre region; looking up at the Sacré-Coeur, with a panoramic view and breathtaking photo opportunity, as darkness set in and the lights of Paris began to shine brightly.

All this punk mayhem was witnessed by the bride's father, André Manoukian, a judge on the M6 (TV channel) version of "Pop Idol"/"American Idol", where wannabe pop stars compete in, no doubt, more melodic fashion.

After the all-night wedding reception bled into a concert at the mill, despite lack of sleep, I rendez-vous'd on a peniche—a boat moored on the canal in the nineteenth district. There's so much musical, artistic and theatrical activity on the various peniches, and they're always vying for punters to take in what they have to offer. This one housed a Didge Fest, showcasing serious bands that employ didgéridoos. Friends of mine—Sébastien Chaffer (alias Seb_didj) and a sometimes musical accomplice of mine, Thomas "Karm"—opened the event. They were followed by Drum'n Didge, three very polished musicians. It seemed as though the didgeridoo bands, creeping up through the crowd, wanted to open their sets by using the circumference of the peniche. The third band, Yang Bay (which, in my opinion, excelled), arrived on the cramped stage in a notable way. As for me, I put on a show of my latest paintings, while also attempting two live paintings, perhaps, in part, influenced by the music being made around me. That Sunday, the festival lasted from 12.30 to 17h, and everyone there was exhausted—especially if they'd over-indulged the night before—but the event was a rousing success.

La Fête de la Musique (this year was my seventh) presented a mixed bag of memories. In the past, I'd chosen to get crushed in order to see acts like Oasis and rock icon Lenny Kravitz. Then, in '06, I barely bothered to dip into the festival's possibilities (perhaps I'd grown a bit blasé); but, a couple of months ago, I felt obliged to see what was on offer. Launched in 1982 by the French Ministry of Culture, la Fête de la Musique is held in more than a hundred countries. It takes place every 21st June, the day of the summer solstice in the northern hemisphere. One is able to find a wide assortment of musicians and bands, there, and, this year, I noticed some sound systems blurting out rapid fire techno, with a grungy-looking audience in attendance.

Naturally, commercialism is apparent, what with brand names sponsoring the event and advertising their wares. One happening in the Bastille area had big money from an area newspaper behind it. A Dj on a circular stage wasn't only raised above the crowd by means of a crane-like apparatus, but, from time to time, performed while flames erupted from his vantage point.

La Place de la Bastille was crammed with people, all trying to tap into the crazy, free fiesta of music—of which I sometimes felt a part and to which I sometimes felt susceptible...slightly let down and just going through the motions. The problem was what, before setting out, to choose from the overabundance of options; in the right district, one can have a great time...in the wrong district, one might end up crushed and disappointed.

One particular year, I chanced going to hear a singer, who wound up sounding so much like Jim Morrison that I thought the Doors lead had been re-incarnated in the city of his premature passing. There are a lot of cover bands who strut their stuff at la Fête de la Musique, as well as bands for which you would be well-advised to clog your ears with cotton wool in an effort to avoid full-on horror—such is the mishmash of the gathering. I only discovered the true spirit of la Fête de la Musique late on, when hauled to a bar by some friends; outside were excellent Brazilian percussionists, pumping out dance-inducing rhythms to a receptive crowd.

Yes, June was a rich month for music, indeed. As summer progresses, one has a choice of free concerts in Paris. One such show involved performers not on a stage but, rather, situated in a cramped transparent box— something like live, contained museum exhibits. What's more, there were no speakers and the box was in a park. Listeners were connected to the box by way of headphones possessing long umbilical cords of cable. A number of performers were given a chance to showcase their talents; I caught two. One is a singer-songwriter and the other is an electronic duo—laptop musicians who deal in distorted (and, at times, ear-bustingly loud) noises. For me, the surreal quality of the situation worked best with the them. Because the audience had to wear headphones to hear the music, we were forced to focus on it. I've been at concerts (and done quite a few) in which the volume of throng chatter competed with the music. In the case of the box performance, however, there was real intimacy.

The park where all of this took place is a special one, and, since it was a summer day, it seemed a hive of activity. There were those lounging in the sun, copious cyclists, and children enjoying the expanse of freedom. In a way, that park is an overgrown playground: there are walkways, sculptures, slides dotted about, a haven for youngsters but, also, the arts. Ironically, Parc de la Villette, a space of 55 hectares (135.9 acres), was, once, a slaughterhouse and livestock market. It's surrounded by canals and features la Cité des Sciences; the French national technology museum, La Géode; the Zenith, a huge hemispheric movie theate; and a famous rock concert hall—la Cité de la Musique, where I once saw Kraftwerk play.

Anyway, the box musicians were a bit of a sideshow. On an overwhelmingly large stage, Djs were spilling out tunes. I was a little surprised by the event organizers' picks to fill the late afternoon/early evening slots on the Saturday I attended. Musicians in a box? Now, that's inventive, in my opinion. But Djs spinning cheesy house and funk or disco...the sort of tunes to which you might dance only after having been coerced by friends...and, only then, after a few too many drinks? Well, that managed to send me to sleep, and I don't think I was the only one waylaid by the soporific turn. A handful of young children felt inclined to wobble and strut about, but I would have liked to have seen something more visual, more live, more challenging, and less retro.

What do you do if you're moving and, consequently, have a vacant apartment at your disposal? Well, the Mulhern family, with an imminent move to London, chose to turn their prime location flat into an art gallery, and titled the event "My Stuff, Some Of My Friends' Stuff, and Some Other Stuff"

The shows participants were Sarah de Teliga, Johanna Halford, Matthew Rose, Renaud Gaultier and Max Mulhern, himself. But that wasn't all; the evening also included a live performance by Dr. Kropp, who, contrary to what you might be thinking, isn't a criminal mind from a James Bond or Austin Powers film, but a man who draws his inspiration from the sea and all things thereby connected. He offered a spiel before commencing to paint a seascape with his hands. He invited ideas of what he should include in his work, the early stages of which showed promise. I was envious of not being the one lavishly spreading paint on the canvas attached to a wall. People drifted in and out of the room, while Kropp went about his task. While the formative stages augured well, the end product, I felt, lacked elements of what viewers had requested and more resembled a mass-produced image he'd probably concocted many times before. (Anyone of a certain age from the UK and Australia might know of the artist Rolf Harris, who creates in a similar style, slapping the paint and coming up with a commendable product.)

There were other traces of the sea lover's art on display, as well as collages by Rose—an artist, writer and fellow of sartorial wit, who moved from Long Island to France in 1992 and is exceptionally proactive. All in all, it was a surprising and pleasurable happening.

I'd imagine the 15th of July must have required a massive clean up job, due to the strewn bottles of wine, champagne, or other denominations of alcohol, heavily consumed the night before, and all of the fireworks shells, impotently lying on the ground. There must Have been strong tinges of regret throughout the city, as Paris goes freefall party mode to celebrate "Quatorze Juillet"—commemoration of the 1790 Fête de la Fédération, held on the first anniversary of the storming of the Bastille, 14 July 1789. The storming of the Bastille was perceived as a symbol of the uprising of the modern French "nation", and of the reconciliation of all the French inside the constitutional monarchy which preceded the First Republic, during the French Revolution.

Quatorze Juillet opens with a formal military parade that dominates the morning. Out and about in the city, one might notice busloads of men and women, including the odd stalwart decked in often lavish armed service attire and joined by their proud family. Being of a pacifist mind, I've tended to steer clear of it, but it's impossible to avoid the drone of planes in the skies above Paris. This year's extravaganza fell on a Saturday, so no day work advantage was had. It was also distinguished by the fact that a little man with an enormous grin was able to make his entrée in the back of a jeep, judging by photos I spied on the BBC Web site. It must have been quite a day for new presidential incumbent Nicolas Sarkozy, punctuated by a garden party and a state of the nation interview with journalists, which Monsieur Sarkozy declined to give. He did, however, break with protocol for the first time: soldiers from France's 26 EU partners, in a show of European solidarity, participated in the Bastille Day military parade. In yet another break with tradition, Sarkozy brought the horse guards behind him to an abrupt halt by stopping to shake hands with the crowd. It appears yhe president is enjoying his honeymoon period and milking any public relations opportunity.

I joined the festivities in the evening. Having failed to locate a picnic by the Seine that I was hoping to join, I decided to check out a huge concert taking place on the large open spot, Champ de Mars. I imagined the music would involve some old French rock star crooner, but, as I fought my way through the crowd, the booming rhythm had all the hallmarks of R'n B...Hip Hop...a distinctively non-French tone. On closer investigation, I found I'd hit on a show by Canadian singer Nelly Furtado. She was beamed onto a big screen and accompanied by backing singers and dancers. But for the big screen, I would have had no inclination of what was occurring far, far away at the other end of the green-space, filled with picnicking and engrossed bodies.

I edged as close as possible, but still well away from the stage, and could just about make out miniscule figures strutting around. Furtado and her crew tried to cross the language divide between songs. The sun was out, the vibes were good, and the performance was engaging.

Once the concert ended, at sundown, the stage crew went about their business and I waited in anticipation for the next act meant to entertain the crowd. I picked up on various accents around me: there seemed to be a strong American contingent and a smattering of Spanish twang. In my immediate vicintity, I glimpsed a small group of dancing Japanese girls.

Soon, my fears of French rock stars dominating the proceedings materialized. One such type, with a French tricolor draped on his back like a cape (Freddy Mercury style), pranced confidently onto the stage. He was almost a caricature. He appeared to have eaten too many pain chocolates or other French delicacies; certainly, he hadn't visited a fitness center in a while. He sported a sizable mop of peroxided hair and customary rock star glasses. Apparently, this character was chosen by the l'Elysée, itself, so he obviously has fans in high places. it was lost on me; my knowledge of French rock doesn't run deep.

After one number, I decided that scene wasn't for me, so I pressed my way back through the crowd, which I later learned contained more than 600,000 people. There was busload upon busload of police—including the heavy gang, the CRS. I managed to get back to my original task of locating the aforementioned picnic and found it just as I was inclined to give up. There, I indulged in some most pleasant cakes and the customary plastic cup of wine and champagne.

As darkness set in, unofficial fireworks whizzed into the gloaming, as expectation of the official display grew. In fact, the group I was with had miscalculated that the pyrotechnics would be spraying the night sky from Trocadéro, so when they finally arrived, there was a rush to the other side of the island, to be able to view them clearly. As a child, I always loved fireworks; even the smell of them was seductive. The same feeling overcame me and others in this sea of bodies. All we could do was stand in awe. Sure, at times they became a bit repetitive, but I was pleased to have witnessed this, no doubt, expensive spectacle—vast blooms of color reaching out in the dark heavens as Bateaux-Mouches and trains passed in the distance.

I'd expected the journey back would be arduous, and that proved to be true: many people were still embroiled in the celebrations, letting off fireworks and the police were blocking off all the métros in the surrounding areas. Utter chaos. Plotting a route home was hard work. I got to George V, where we were finally allowed to board the oversubscribed métros. Save for the crush, I arrived at my apartment with a host of pleasant memories.

Finally...

A friend told me, in the morning, about the Tropical Carnival of Paris. So, I traveled to Bastille, following the distant sound of pounding drums. I watched as elaborate costumes filed past. There were the usual drum bands and floats booming out the music of the Caribbean—soca or ragga. It took time for me to to acclimate; but, after awhile, I concluded that I was witnessing an event that was not only rife with pulsating rhythms but a visual extravaganza and the celebration of a specific culture. Amid the strutting and plumage were those originating from places in or around the Caribbean region which are predominantly French-speaking or French Creole-speaking. These would include Martinique, Guadeloupe, Haiti, French Guyana, French St. Maarten, Marie-Galante, La Désirade, Les Saintes and Saint-Barthélemy, as well as portions of Dominica, St. Lucia, Grenada, and St. Thomas. The two official French overseas departments of Guadeloupe and Martinique—Caribbean Départments d'Outre Mer—are also known as the French West Indies. The department of Guadeloupe includes the dependencies of St. Barthélemy, French St. Maarten, Les Saintes, Marie-Galante, and La Désirade.

It was plain to see that this carnival, though obviously related, was a different brand to the Notting Hill Gate event that takes place every end of August in London. There were no men wielding whips, cracking them on the road, in Notting Hill. There were no steel bands, in the Paris version, and nobody danced with policemen—a Notting Hill tradition. Still, there was Caribbean food (less grilled sweet corns). I suppose the Paris version is not as developed and as long standing as Notting Hill's, which came into being after the second World War and has since ballooned into a massive affair. Nonetheless, the Tropical Carnival was full of surprises. One group decked in plastic foliage swirled incense around—maybe as a form of purification? It reminded me of being in a Catholic church. There was a depth to some of the participants' costumes and actions, manifestly part of longheld customs. Sometimes men wore dresses—as did some of the women—that were from a different epoch. Some wore hats that took the form of windmills.

At times, the energy of the crowd reached fever pitch. Caught in that atmosphere, it was possible to shake off the toil of the working week and feel truly vivant.