Flute Sonatas Nrs. 4, 11, 3, 8: A Baroque Gem from Sweden That Stays With You
If you’ve ever wondered what it feels like to step into a candlelit room in 18th-century Stockholm, this album by Johan Helmich Roman might just be your ticket. Released way back in 1983 on the Proprius label, Flute Sonatas Nrs. 4, 11, 3, 8 is one of those records that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. The kind where you’re sitting there sipping coffee or staring out the window, and suddenly—bam—it hits you right in the feels.
Now let me tell ya, I’m no expert on baroque music (or any music really), but something about Penelope Evison’s flute playing sticks with me. Like, how does she make an instrument sound so alive? It’s not perfect-perfect, if you know what I mean—there’s a rawness to it, as though she’s whispering secrets through her breath. And Olof Larsson’s cello? Dude knows how to hold down the low end without stealing the spotlight. Eva Nordenfelt on harpsichord adds these delicate little flourishes that tie everything together like ribbon on a gift.
Two tracks stood out for me, probably because they felt almost... personal? First off, there’s the Sonata No. 8 in A Major. From the opening “Allegro,” it’s clear this isn’t gonna be some snoozy background thing. It’s lively but not in-your-face, kinda like meeting someone at a party who instantly makes you wanna chat more. Then comes the second movement, marked “Adagio – Allegro.” This part gets me every time. There’s this moment where the flute and harpsichord dance around each other, and honestly? It feels like watching two old friends catch up after years apart. You can hear the joy between the notes—it’s messy and real and beautiful all at once.
The other track I keep coming back to is Sonata No. 11 in G Minor. Maybe it’s the minor key pulling at my heartstrings, or maybe it’s just how hauntingly simple it is. The “Largo” section especially grabbed me by the collar. It’s slow, sure, but it doesn’t drag; instead, it builds this quiet tension that makes you lean in closer. By the time the “Vivace” kicks in, you’re already hooked. It’s like Roman knew exactly how to mess with your emotions—first he lulls you into a trance, then BAM, pulls the rug out from under you.
And can we talk about the production for a sec? Bertil Alving did a bang-up job capturing the intimacy of these performances. Every scrape of bow against string, every breath behind the flute—it’s all there, crisp and clear. Even the design by Tor Svae has this understated charm, with Filippo Bonanni’s illustrations adding a touch of vintage flair. Props to Jacob Boëthius for producing such a cohesive listen—it doesn’t feel dated even though it came out forty years ago.
But here’s the thing: listening to this album isn’t just about appreciating technical skill or historical significance. It’s about connection. When I hear those sonatas, I don’t think about Sweden or the 1700s or whatever. I think about people—real humans trying to express something bigger than words could ever capture.
Oh, and fun fact: apparently, Johan Helmich Roman was called the “Father of Swedish Music.” Honestly? After hearing this album, I totally get why. Dude had chops. But also—he had soul. And sometimes, that’s what matters most.
So yeah, give this record a spin if you’re feeling adventurous. Or sad. Or happy. Or anything, really. Just promise me you’ll pay attention to those tiny details—the ones that remind you music isn’t just sound. It’s life.
