Tim Cronin, co-founder of the stoner rock legends Monster Magnet, passed away at the age of 63, leaving behind more than just a band; he left behind a legacy woven into the very soul of Red Bank, New Jersey’s underground music scene. He wasn’t the loudest in the room, nor the face most recognized under the stage lights, but his presence: steady, soulful, and unwavering, formed the spiritual foundation on which Monster Magnet built its storm.
When the band came together in the late ’80s, Tim Cronin played drums and bass, helping channel their swirling psychedelic noise into something powerful and distinct. On their self-titled 1989 debut EP, his musical instincts helped ground the chaos, laying the foundation for the massive sound that would erupt in later albums like Powertrip. He stepped away from performing soon after the band signed with Caroline Records in 1990, but Cronin never truly left. Instead, he took his place behind the scenes, running sound, lights, and production for over three decades.
Earlier this year, Cronin was diagnosed with ALS, a disease as merciless as they come. A GoFundMe organized to help with his care quickly surpassed $100,000, not because of hype, but because of the genuine affection he’d earned over a lifetime of kindness.
ALS, or amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, is a progressive disease that affects the nerve cells controlling voluntary muscle movement. It gradually makes even basic tasks difficult, and managing the symptoms often requires full-time care, specialised equipment, and frequent medical support. Much of this isn’t covered through traditional health insurance, which is why the fundraiser was created.
Bob Pantella, Monster Magnet’s drummer, spoke of Cronin not as someone who was, but as someone who is, a presence still felt, a character still shaping the heartbeat of the band. His humor, his loyalty, the quiet way he supported everyone around him: those are the pieces that don’t fade.
But Tim’s legacy stretched beyond the band. For more than 30 years, he worked at Jack’s Music Shoppe in Red Bank, a place where he felt just as vital as he did in any music venue. To customers, he wasn’t a rock guy: he was the friendly face who remembered your name, who knew exactly which record you were looking for before you did.
Now, that storefront bears flowers, notes, and vinyl tributes: a memorial in the heart of a town that loved him dearly.
His stepdaughter, Maggie Chesek, perhaps said it best. To her, Tim wasn’t just part of the family: he was the center. “The center of the universe,” she wrote. A man whose sense of humor, generosity, and deeply rooted love reached everyone in his orbit.
As the music world reflects on his passing, it’s clear that Cronin’s influence runs deeper than stage credits.