Six more sounds, voices, and instruments you have been mishearing.
You name a sound and you think you have named the thing making it. A guitar riff, a piano hook, a wall of strings, a band locked in a room. The ear files it instantly and never reopens the file. That is the whole comfort of a song you know by heart: nothing in it needs checking.
These six need checking. The “guitar” everyone air-plays is a keyboard. The other guitar everyone air-plays is also a keyboard. The bass holding up one of the biggest riffs of its decade is a guitar wearing a costume. The orchestra swelling under a singer is a single cello note, retriggered. The cash register that opens a song about money was never a till at all, it was spliced together by hand with a razor blade. Each one is the most recognisable second of its song, and each one is something other than what you would swear it is.
None of this changes how the song feels. It changes what you know is happening while you feel it. Surface any of these and one familiar sound tilts a few degrees. Surface all six and you will start second-guessing every “obvious” instrument you hear for the rest of the week.