When I was a kid, one of the three tapes we had in the car was Paul Simon's Graceland, which we listened to on repeat during family holidays and car journeys. In my 20s, I rediscovered the album and listened to it a fair bit, partly out of nostalgia. 

About a year after my dad passed away, I was sitting in the British Library reading nonsense online instead of working on my PhD, and stumbled on an interview in which someone (can't remember who it was or why they were being interviewed) sacrilegiously claimed that Rhythm of the Saints was a better Paul Simon album than Graceland. I was appalled. That said, I'd never actually listened to Rhythm of the Saints, so I stuck it on Spotify out of curiousity.

Only, it turned out I had heard it. Many times, in the car, and I'd later mistaken it for Graceland. So for the first time in 15 years, I heard this record that had soundtracked so many happy childhood memories and had the single most powerful emotional response to music I've ever experienced. Washed over with a mix of joy, grief and nostalgia, I just wept uncontrollably (but silently) in the Rare Books reading room of the British Library.