Weidemann, the flute between theatre and chamber music

Charles Weidemann. A name that will mean very little to many readers, but one that for more than half of the eighteenth century figured in London’s vibrant musical life, moving between Händel’s orchestra, flute teaching and various court occasions. By contrast, his output remained on the fringes of the repertoire for a long time.

The occasion to return to him is provided, at present, by the recording of the sonatas made for Passacaille by Jan De Winne, which allows us to appreciate their musical value as well as their undoubted historical interest.

We therefore find the revival of his works interesting, also in view of a specifically critical question: what musical profile corresponds to such a decidedly varied career?

The route followed by the disc offers sufficiently broad ground on which to address it: nine of the twelve sonatas of his first opus, published by John Walsh around 1737, allow us to become acquainted with a substantial part of the composer’s chamber music output.

Alongside the flautist are Ira Givol on cello and Stanislav Gres on harpsichord and positive organ: this is a small ensemble in which decisions concerning the continuo acquire decisive importance.

Some historical background is, at this point I would say, indispensable.

Carl Friedrich Weidemann, who became Charles in English circles, was born in Germany at the beginning of the eighteenth century (the precise date is unknown) and died in London in 1782. Unfortunately, we know nothing of his training either, but one firm point in the sparse biographical record of his early years is his participation in Händel’s Tamerlano in 1725, recalled in an annotation by the musician himself. Moreover, a couple of years later, Quantz mentioned him among the flautists in Händel’s orchestra. Weidemann’s place in the capital’s operatic world was therefore documented. The importance of this evidence, scant though it is, also lies in the possibility of placing the composer within a stable group of professionals who shared rehearsals, performances and opportunities for work.

In short, these are indications of an early involvement in the capital’s operatic world, at the theatre in the Haymarket, where German and Italian experiences mingled. For an instrumentalist, moreover, the theatre meant a constant exercise in adaptation, involving supporting the singer, defining an affect, recognising the function of an obbligato passage or bringing one’s own articulation into line with that of the others.

But Weidemann’s career was not confined to the theatre alone. Teaching the flute was a further source of income and connections. Among his pupils, as Burney records, was Hugh Hume, Lord Polwarth and later Earl of Marchmont, who gave him a manuscript of six trio sonatas attributed to Händel. The episode is significant for understanding the circulation of music among aristocratic travellers, performers and composers, although the attribution of these pieces to Händel is disputed. But what matters is the teaching and personal relationship they document, since the flute teacher could become someone to whom one might entrust a discovery, turn for an opinion or delegate the task of contacting other musicians.

Within the manuscript, Weidemann also left his recollection of Tamerlano: a few words, a spare record of professional experience. His figure also emerges through objects and practices: a musical part, a lesson, a copy passing from a private library into a performer’s hands. Such traces, as one can readily understand, show how much the transmission of music depended on concrete relationships and how much the performer’s work encompassed skills now distributed among research, teaching, mediation and concert activity.

Let us add another element, no less important than the previous ones: in 1738 Weidemann took part in establishing the fund from which the Royal Society of Musicians would develop. The project provided support for musicians in difficulty and their families, and Händel himself was a subscriber and benefactor. Behind the organisation of concerts and the prestige of aristocratic connections, then, lay a profession vulnerable to loss of income, illness and destitution. The fund makes this material condition visible and helps us understand the working system within which instrumentalists’ publishing ventures also developed.

The composer’s career continued for a long time. In the sixties and seventies, Weidemann composed music for court occasions, documented by the collections of minuets held at the British Library; in 1778 he was recorded as a member of the King’s Band of Musicians. His first opus belongs to an early stage of this career. This circumstance invites us to consider the sonatas in their precise historical position, without interpreting them in the light of his later works.

His later catalogue includes trio sonatas, duets, concertos, a second book of sonatas for flute and basso continuo, and the six quartets of his eighth opus for flute, violin, viola and cello, published in 1773. Weidemann’s interest in his own instrument was also accompanied by experimentation with different combinations, and this too helps clarify the significance of the revival: the first opus is a point of entry, while a broader understanding requires comparison with other instrumental groupings and later stages of his career.

But let us return to the sonatas.

The Walsh print, entitled XII Sonatas or Solos for a German Flute with a Thorough Bass for the Harpsicord or Violoncello, makes the collection’s intended use clear on its title page. “German flute” denotes the transverse flute; “Solos” the principal part with accompaniment. The mention of harpsichord or cello raises a question of performance: how to realise the continuo, which instruments to choose, and how to relate them to the solo line. The bass is the ground on which the flute’s discourse unfolds, and its presence can alter proportions and colours according to the performers’ decisions.
What kind of music is this? The writing is idiomatic for the flute: the slow movements favour a singing quality, while the fast ones feature rhythmic vitality and dance figures. The style is galant, but not generic. Weidemann has assimilated the lessons of the French tradition (Leclair belongs to the same generation) and the Italian one, and combines them with a freedom that is at times surprising: unexpected harmonic turns, chromatic inflections that colour the discourse, slow movements with an almost vocal singing quality. Variety is the most evident feature. The sonatas do not come across as variants of the same model. No. 10 in A minor is perhaps the most dramatic: the opening Largo possesses an almost theatrical intensity and solemnity, the Allegro is vibrant, while the Cantabile is a piece of rare sweetness that stays in the memory, just as the Minuet is thoroughly pleasing and graceful.

While No. 3 in C minor is dark and contemplative, especially in the Adagio, No. 2 in E minor alternates melancholy and agitation. No. 1 in D major stands out for its meditative opening Largo and the Allegro that follows, full of restrained energy; the third movement, laid out as Allegro – Largo – Allegro, is an example of how Weidemann manages to construct a progression through contrasting tempi without necessarily losing the unity of the musical discourse.

No. 4 in G major, which opens the disc, is a calling card of great elegance: a brilliant Vivace, a singing Larghetto, a measured Minuet, probably the track that leaves the strongest impression on a first listen through the whole disc, although Sonata No. 11 in D major proves to be even more brilliant, with an Allegro that displays the flute’s agility.

No. 12 in G major is one of the most elaborate: a flowing Andante, a lively Allegro redolent of Arcadia, a Larghetto of profound lyricism and a final Allegro assai that closes with considerable brio. No. 7 in G major, in its alternation between serenity and restlessness, is a small journey into the depths of the soul, performed with great mastery. Finally, No. 5 in D major, which closes the disc, offers a luminous farewell, with an almost meditative Adagio ma non tanto and a final Poco Allegro capable of dispelling every tension.

The relationship between slow and fast movements is carefully judged: the former are the place of harmonic tension and breath, the latter that of rhythmic energy. The bass’s role is never merely subordinate: the continuo takes part in the dialogue, sustains the dissonances, prepares the cadences. Harmonic variety deserves attention, since the modulations, chromatic inflections and unexpected turns contribute to the richness of the musical discourse.

And now to the performers. Jan De Winne plays a transverse flute that he built himself in 2022 after a Quantz model of 1740. This is not a minor detail: De Winne approaches this repertoire with the dual experience of a performer and a maker of transverse flutes.

Ira Givol plays a 1720 Pieter Rombouts cello, while Stanislav Gres alternates between a 2023 Denzil Wraight harpsichord, a copy of a 1740 Grabner from Dresden, and a 2012 positive organ by Etienne Debaisieux.

This disc does not mark De Winne’s first encounter with Weidemann. As early as 9 August 2018, as part of the National Flute Association programme in Orlando, he had performed the tenth and fifth sonatas with Webb Wiggins on harpsichord: an engagement with the works in concert documented years before the sessions. Alongside this is his 2010 recording of Händel’s sonatas, with Lorenzo Ghielmi and Marco Testori, which places this release within an ongoing exploration of the transverse flute and its chamber repertoire.

The first sonata in D major offers the most evident example of internal organisation: after Largo and Allegro, the finale presents the previously mentioned succession Allegro – Largo – Allegro. In the third movement, the passage from Allegro to Largo and the subsequent return to Allegro introduce the contrast of pace within the same structure. The relationship between the sections may be brought into focus through the weight of the cadences, the timing of the pauses, the decisiveness with which the new tempo is established. This is one of the points where the performer’s work directly involves understanding the architecture, as well as overcoming the difficulties of the part.

In the tenth sonata, the opening Largo and the subsequent Cantabile belong to the same composition, but occupy different positions. The former establishes the entry into the sonata; the latter comes after the Allegro and before the Minuet. Cantabile specifies a quality of delivery and foregrounds the link between tone and phrase. The presence of two distinct episodes calls for a differentiation involving pace, the weight of the notes, the relationship with the accompaniment. The reference to vocality, frequent when discussing the Baroque flute, takes concrete form precisely through these elements: length of breath, the direction given to emphases, the articulation of endings.
And in this case the ensemble works very well. In the opening Largo, the instrument breathes and engages. In the Cantabile, it guides the listener towards serenity. The result places this sonata among the most pleasing moments of the recording and invites several return listenings.

In the third movement of the second sonata, the marking combines pace and a quality of singing. The comparison with the tenth highlights a kinship in the alternation of episodes, to which different instructions correspond. Here too, the distinction between the two slow movements is essential to the sonata’s profile. The instrumentation used in the individual movement contributes to shaping the result: the relationship between the flute line, the duration of the chords and the presence of the bass determines how clearly emphases and resolutions are perceived.

A disc that is a pleasure to listen to, and that adds to that pleasure the merit of reviving a little-heard composer. De Winne’s flute is at the heart of this success: a clear tone, capable, however, of flaring up, in several passages, with an almost passionate engagement. It is a quality that accords with the vocal dimension of these sonatas and makes listening absorbing. The flute line stands out clearly from the ensemble, so that its discourse can be followed effortlessly, and the expressive intensity adds emotional interest to a recording that would already deserve to be heard for excellent historical reasons.

How much this music can say to us today is the question the disc poses, and the answer comes precisely from the pleasure of listening. The Cantabile of the tenth sonata and the tread of the Minuet in the fourth are the moments to which we return most readily. De Winne feels Weidemann’s music and communicates it: that is the impression that remains at the end.

The continuo is not simply a harmonic carpet. Gres moves from harpsichord to organ, and the change alters the conditions of the flute’s singing: duration of sound, attack of the chords, manner of supporting the solo line. The clarity of the continuo allows the accompaniment to be perceived as part of the musical discourse, which matters in pieces where the harmonic tensions and their resolution have such an evident expressive function. Givol too, in the movements in which he is employed, adds to the keyboard a line with its own potential for singing and articulation. The balance between the instruments, well conveyed by the recording, brings out this aspect of the instrumentation: the flute has the principal part, but its discourse takes shape together with the voices that accompany it. The intelligibility of the continuo is one of the strengths of the listening experience and carries weight in the positive overall assessment.

In short, the disc as a whole works as a journey. The succession of sonatas alternates keys and characters, decidedly avoiding monotony. De Winne’s choice to open with No. 4 and close with No. 5 gives the programme a recognisable shape.

The recording sessions took place at AMUZ in Antwerp, from 21 to 24 January 2024. Editing and mastering are by Olaf Mielke and Harald Gericke; Jan De Winne is also the executive producer.

The recorded sound has revealed a remarkable balance between the instruments and a pleasing resonance from the room, as well as remarkable clarity in the continuo.

The greatest merit of the project is to bring Weidemann into focus as a composer, giving space to his music beyond the cathedral of notes bearing Händel’s name.

If we really must find a fault (which, after all, is not a fault), it lies in the absence of a complete set: three sonatas are missing, and a complete recording would have had greater documentary value. But the overall verdict is – in any case – decidedly positive. Weidemann finally emerges from a dusty archive and regains his voice.