Channelling Frank Sinatra while looking a bit more like Perry Como in a smart red V-neck sweater and grey slacks, Paul Lauterjung grasped the mike as he snapped his fingers.
I’ve got you under my skin.
I’ve got you deep in the heart of me.
He had them, all right. From the first note of that Cole Porter chestnut, Lauterjung’s clear, smooth, low tenor held the crowd of about 30 entranced at the Emeritus Emerald Hills retirement home in Auburn, Calif. Eyes lit up, heads bobbed. Some sang along.
Between verses, Lauterjung met eyes with a woman named Louise in the front row. He reached out and took her hand.
“Will you dance with me?” he asked.
“No,” Louise answered.
She seemed taken aback by the request. But others in the crowd also might have been surprised to hear how Lauterjung’s speaking voice, cracking and tremulous, differed so much from his silky singing.
“Just a little,” he urged Louise.
“OK.”
The elegant woman and the much younger man cut a rug for nearly a minute — twirling, even — before Lauterjung pulled back slightly and crooned.
And each time I do, just the thought of you
Makes me stop before I begin.
‘Cause I’ve got you under my skin.
“Let’s hear it for Louise!” the Roseville, Calif., man told the crowd, voice cracking slightly, at song’s end.
For an hour on this weekday afternoon, Lauterjung deftly worked his way through the Great American Songbook — either a capella, on piano or with the help of a karaoke machine — ending with a rousing “New York, New York.”
So, it had to be asked: If he could make it here — sing so loud, so strong — why couldn’t he make it through a complete sentence in his speaking voice without faltering?
The question has dogged Lauterjung, a former insurance agent who moonlights singing big-band tunes, since 2004, the year his vocal cords suddenly betrayed him.
Two years and many specialists later, he was diagnosed with spasmodic dysphonia.
It’s a neurological condition in which neurons in the brain cause too much movement in the vocal cords, interrupting speech and weakening voice quality.
About 40,000 Americans suffer these vocal tremors, and experts say the disorder usually strikes people who, like Lauterjung, are in their 40s or 50s. There is no known cure, though many have reported that Botox injections directly into the vocal cords can ease symptoms for up to six months.
For Lauterjung, whose voice is so halting that he found it difficult to continue selling life insurance, Botox was not an option. Too experimental and, frankly, freaky.
“You’re injecting poison in your neck,” he said. “The Botox essentially paralyzes your vocal cords.”
Besides, a specialist told him bluntly, “If you enjoy singing, forget it (with Botox).”
An unusual aspect of spasmodic dysphonia, one that has researchers scratching their heads, is that it usually affects only the speaking voice. Many patients are still able to sing or chant without the staccato spasms.
Perhaps the best-known sufferer is Dilbert cartoonist Scott Adams, whose voice has been significantly weakened but who has found that if he speaks in a singsong, almost nursery-rhyme manner, he can speak almost normally in front of groups.
But others in the public view struggle. Syndicated public radio host Diane Rehm had to take a leave of absence when first diagnosed with spasmodic dysphonia, though she continues her weekday talk show out of Washington, D.C.
Lauterjung’s condition is somewhere between Adams’ and Rehm’s. When he sings, he has the same low tenor-baritone he’s always enjoyed. When he talks, it’s as if a 90-year-old man had taken control of his vocal cords.
He doesn’t have to worry so much about being in the public spotlight, though there are his gigs singing to nursing-home residents throughout the Sacramento area, for which he’s modestly paid.
But his livelihood has been affected by the disorder.
“I went through the ‘Why is this happening to me?’ (phase) and (asking) ‘How long will it last?’” Lauterjung said. “In the past year or so, it’s gone from bad to a little worse. I’m trying to find that middle ground and accept that it’s something I’ll have to live with.”
He’s interviewing for jobs that aren’t tied so closely to speaking, as his career in commissioned sales had been.
“It’s difficult during this tough economic time anyway, and then add the fact (of not being) able to talk well on the phone,” he said. “When I’m able to talk to people, they ask, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ You need a strong, confident voice to be able to sell.
“One of my best customers in life insurance, he felt sorry for me over the phone. He thought I was some old man. He’s in his mid-70s himself. When I showed up at his door, he said, ‘Hey, you’re pretty young.’ “
There is one advantage to the halting voice: “It’s actually helping me to think a little more before I speak. I’ve learned to listen more and speak less.”
Paul’s wife, Patty, a freelance editor and writer, said her husband has maintained his faith in God as well as his sense of humor during the ordeal.
“He’s not a down kind of person,” she said.
“I’ve encouraged him to do volunteer singing and get out.
“I have noticed there are situations where he won’t talk as much because he’s self-conscious about the voice, like in a group or at a party.”
Ah, but when he sings . . .