Laughner, punk’s singular poète maudit, takes the foxholed troubadour archetype to it’s final, inevitable endgame. His songs celebrate the sublime horror of post-romance. He can travel into the alley of the apocalypse on a whim. He goes and stands at every door. “It was one down for the leather boys. And one for the never-been-kissed.” Laughner’s melodrama folds in on itself like an origami egg and burns.