When I volunteered to cover the Arctic Monkeys concert on Tuesday at the Warfield, the Intermission editors told me to write 500 to 700 words. Although this requirement seemed reasonable at the time, I can now confidently say that I really only need two: Boner Time.

Let me just start by saying this: I’m not a pervert; I didn’t make this phrase up. The Arctic Monkeys’ opening act, Be Your Own Pet, implanted it in my mind when they announced the title of their next song. You can guess the title, I’m sure.

At first, I dismissed the term as irreverent and decided that writing a song called “Boner Time” irreversibly qualified Be Your Own Pet (BYOP) as sophomoric and juvenile. But it’s a bit more complex than that.

Let me explain. BYOP is a pretty standard Riot Grrrl punk band; they play hard, and they play fast. The guitarist sticks to power chords and occasionally rolls around on the floor, the bassist doesn’t play anything complicated, the drummer plays fast but simple beats and the female lead singer is ambiguously attractive (but unambiguously angry). And they don’t look old enough to buy cigarettes. (I actually looked this up — their average age is just over 18.) But, like many other hardcore punks, they all have more energy than five year-olds on speed. A lot of speed.

Between singer Jemina Pearl’s screams, convulsions and hardcore head-banging, I could scarcely make out her lyrics, much less appreciate the music. In retrospect, though, I realized something: The phrase “Boner Time” isn’t just potty humor — it’s a juvenile joke about grown-ups which reflects mockery but also insecurity and, at some subconscious level, admiration for and envy of the proverbial Big Kids who do The Dirty. BYOP reeked of a profound amateurism that was callow but pregnant with a yearning for coolness and credibility.

So why am I spending so much time on an arguably lackluster opening act? I know you probably just want to read about the Arctic Monkeys. Again, let me explain.

I initially dismissed BYOP as a poor choice to complement the headliner; now, however, I realize that they were really the perfect choice because they’re simply an inverted version of the Monkeys. BYOP want to be the Big Kids; the Arctic Monkeys are the Big Kids. BYOP frantically want sex and violence and alcohol and drugs. The Arctic Monkeys have reached the true pinnacle of coolness — they’ve got all those things, but they don’t even want them.

Their lyrics tell of drunken scuffles and crazy times, but also of boredom. They sing of being interrogated by police for underage drinking and not caring, of running away from the cops “just for the laugh.” Now with a second album under their belt (“Favourite Worst Nightmare”), the Arctic Monkeys have grown up (in other words, they can finally buy their own alcohol in the States), but they still have the composed, nonchalant and disinterested attitude that has been their hallmark since the beginning.

From their rumbling opener and new single, “Brianstorm,” to their traditional closer, “A Certain Romance,” the Monkeys put on a show of old-style hipness: We’re going to play, you’re going to like it and we’re not going to care; hell, our accents will prevent you from even understanding what we’re saying between songs, and you’ll still love us.

A steady stream of the group’s trademark fist-pumping, catchy-as-hell tunes kept the show lively and energetic. Highlights included “D Is for Dangerous,” “This House Is a Circus” and “Old Yellow Bricks” from their new album and “View from the Afternoon,” “I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor,” “Dancing Shoes” and “When the Sun Goes Down” (complete with a crowd sing-a-long at the beginning) from their debut, “Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not.” Although the crowd lost some of its fervent enthusiasm during the middle-set doldrums, the group performed a solid set list and wisely chose to avoid their slower tracks in favor of tunes with memorable hooks and fast tempos. Many of their songs sound somewhat similar to one another, but the band pulled it all off nicely.

The show didn’t end with an encore, but I wasn’t very surprised. Real Boner Time doesn’t either.