(Mon, 6 pm, Promenade) Picture, if you will, a young Seattle man with a reddish beard, a black wool cap, and a sweetly melancholy voice. Now picture a band around him, playing in that misty NW indie-folk fashion: a violin, a banjo, a lady harmonizing with him, a drummer who isn't too intrusive-maybe even the occasional doleful musical saw. He sings about combs, holes in the ground, "holy garments," and the bent beams of wooden buildings. Congratulations! You've just conjured Bryan John Appleby. Does he have a tattoo of an old flywheel or a ball-peen hammer under that wool sweater? Probably! BK