There are more than 30 extant versions of the Rodrigo and, whilst some may cheerfully be passed over, it has long been both difficult and pointless to nominate any of the remaining ones as 'the best'; this is Bream's fourth recording of it—and the third to survive in the catalogue. It is also his second version of the Arnold Concerto, though the first (RCA, 8/61), is no longer listed. His tempos in the outer movements are a mite slower than of yore but the differences are small—and in line with those which occur naturally, from one studio or day to another, the energy, sparkle and clean delivery are undiminished. What differentiates these performances from others, including Bream's earlier ones, is the extraordinary accounts of their slow movements. Bream's views of the sardana and the smoky night club (respectively) come from within, to an extent that makes even the most expressive of others seem 'external', and they are conveyed with such wonderful fluidity of tone and phrasing that one might almost believe feeling that one is hearing them for the first time. Others may (and are entitled to) disagree, but for me these are the desert-island versions of these two concertos, adding maturity to virtuosity.
Takemitsu says of To the Edge of Dream: ''melodic fragments float in a transparent space like so many splinters of dream''; though they never quite coalesce into a stable, protracted melody, they give cohesion to the music. The work is scored for an unusually large orchestra but, as it most often alternates with, rather than opposes the guitar or is held to a breathless pianissimo, the guitar is always audible. It is a work of haunting beauty and if the composer is not delighted by Bream's playing (and EMI's recording) of it he is indeed a hard man.'